Manhattan Home
by love97
Summary: SEQUEL to A FLOWER IN BROOKLYN. Spot is determined to make a new life for himself after the conflict with Queens. And so he moves to the crazy, urban underworld of New York City. Full summary inside. FINAL CHAPTER UP!
1. Prologue

**A/N:** Welcome to the sequel! I'm so happy with the responses I got from the original, and I had no idea we'd be right back here again. Anywho, _Manhattan Home_ is sequel to _A Flower in Brooklyn_, which you know already since it's in the summary lol. But if you haven't read it, I suggest you do before reading this one, just so you are more with the history and characters. You will also be spoiled for the end of it if you read the full summary below…

**Summary** **(SPOILERS):** We last left our two characters, Spot and Gabby, at the train station in Brooklyn after quite a mess of dilemmas. Even though Gabby had betrayed Spot's love and gotten him into a few "predicaments", she managed to wiggle her way out of it and Spot let go of his desire to leave Gabby, and stayed with her. Not to mention, she was carrying Brooklyn's baby. Now, the happy couple has moved to Manhattan where they are determined to begin a new life. Spot has decided it's time to say goodbye to his paper-peddling days (tear) to go out into the real world, with Gabby at his side and baby in her tummy. But is all well in paradise? Will the two young lovers give in to the anxiety of making it completely on their own? Or, worst of all, will the past _remain_ in the past as is should be? I guess we will find out! Before you begin, know that this piece will probably not be as long as the first, and it will take a much deeper look into Spot's and Gabby's personalities. It does not involve as much "action" as _Flower_, but it is _packed_ with emotional character struggle. But, given its setting, we will get to see a lot of certain Manhattan newsies! Sooo, read, review, and enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Newsies_, Disney owns _Newsies_, and I am not making money from this. Sigh…it just gets sadder every time I write it.

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**Prologue**

The eighteen-year-old rushed through Manhattan as carefully as he could in the middle of the night. The seventeen-year-old girl attached to his side could not afford to wait much longer. He jogged her through the nearly vacant streets past the closed shops and crawling night bars. He felt an odd combination of feelings: anticipation, excitement, and, most strangely, fear.

"Breathe, breathe…we'll make it."

The girl nodded through short, anxious breaths. She trusted him. Ever over the shouting noises of the boisterous underworld, he could still hear her uneasiness. With one arm around her waist, he directed them through the three blocks to their doctor. Beads of sweat formed at his brow and hairline. His heart had jumped up his throat only to provide a pulsating annoyance beneath his Adam's apple.

As if time had actually been pulled back to lengthen the journey, the boy—man—found it all too frustrating to make it to the doctor. They could not stand to wait any longer than they had. Finally, at half-past twelve on the very early morning of March tenth, 1901, they made it.

"Yes?" Dr. Berry, a middle-aged man inquired. He took one look at the young couple and snapped to his senses. The girl's enormous pregnant belly and terrified look in her eyes turned his brain to medical mode.

"Oh!" Dr. Berry exclaimed and rushed them into his office, calling for the midwife to join them. He sat her down on a stuffy chair not five feet from the door.

They boy crouched down beside the girl while the doctor and his assistant prepared the modest clinic in the other room.

"Love you," he told her quietly while clutching her hand within both of his.

She nodded and whispered the same responses through quickened breaths. The midwife entered the small lobby and ushered the girl carefully into the room.

"'Scuse me," the boy said to the midwife once the expecting mother was safe in the doctor's hands. "Take…take care 'a her. Please…that's my Gabby."

The midwife smiled warmly. She nodded and rubbed the boy's arm reassuringly. "Don't worry, Mr. Conlon. She'll be just fine." She turned and swiftly turned to the room.

Spot stood staring at the closed door in front of him and heard nothing but his heart constricting regular beating patterns. In a few, long hours he would have a baby boy or baby girl to cradle in his own arms. His whole world would change, to be centered on that baby. Nothing would be the same after tonight.

Three hours later and at least four dozen paces around the clinic later, the door to the delivery room creaked open. Spot stopped dead in his tracks and his bottom lip fell open. There, wrapped almost invisibly amongst white blankets in the midwife's arms, was his baby. His heart was now so far up his throat, he feared that if he spoke, it would fall right out. He stood motionless and utterly speechless as she approached him ever so carefully, a look of warmth shining in her eyes.

Spot then discovered movement; his lungs deflated into an excited exhale and he cracked a quivering smile. He stepped toward the surprisingly peaceful infant lying in the woman's arms. It did not cry or scream, and it almost scared Spot.

"Want to hold your first child?" she asked.

Smiling gingerly an awe-stricken grin as a reply, she placed the baby so that Spot held his child. She situated his arms and hands quickly and securely, and a tear came to her eye.

Spot gazed back at the beautiful bundle of innocent joy before him. Never in his entire life had he seen a more perfect human being. He could barely think, let alone talk or move. The infant was about the length of his forearm, with its skin a light pink, and light brown hair atop its head.

"It's a boy, isn't it?" Spot asked, once able to come back down.

The woman smiled at him, giving him a small nod.

"I knew it."

He walked around the room a little bit, taking it all in. The tiny boy squirmed slightly in his father's arms as the two of them stepped about the space. Ten minutes later the doctor opened the door, and Gabby lay exhausted and fatigued in the bed. He made his way over to her.

"It's a boy, isn't it?" Gabby asked, her eyes only halfway open while she made to sit up against the bed. Her face was flushed pink, her hair a light brown mess of tangles against the pillows.

Spot nodded as he approached her bedside, unable to take his eyes away from the child.

Gabby breathed a smile. "I had a feeling it would be."

Spot sat down at the edge of the bed and handed the baby boy so that it rested comfortably in Gabby's arms. He leaned over and kissed her glistening forehead; for if he just sat there gazing at the two most important people in his life, he felt he might do something that was very un-Spot-like: cry.

"Have you picked any names?" Dr. Berry inquired from the doorway.

Gabby looked at the peaceful baby in her arms. "Noah."

"I like it," answered Spot immediately.

"Noah Patrick Conlon."


	2. Good Morning, Sunshine

Blue eyes opened slowly and groggily. It was another morning to an endless day. Spot Conlon stared up at the ceiling of his Manhattan home for a couple of long minutes. _Ugh_. He felt so connected to the white bed sheets and lumpy mattress that it was impossible for him to get up. The back of his neck was cold and damp from the intense dreams he had been having lately, and he felt as though his head weighed fifty pounds.

Still, the dawn sunlight was creeping in through the window above the bed, casting a cheerful glow upon the messy bed. He looked to the left—the shadow of a bird fluttering near the window danced across the blank, brown wall of the bedroom. To his right was the mattress's absence of Gabby, the mother of his baby boy Noah. She always got up earlier than he did; he commended her on that.

Noises from the rest of the one-bedroom apartment began to ring out through his ears. The sound of Noah's high-pitched laugh came from the kitchen just outside the bedroom, along with the shuffling of feet about the wooden floorboards. They had both gotten up, therefore Spot decided to get up. After all, he _did_ have to get to work.

"G'morning," Spot greeted in a tired voice as he stepped into the kitchen.

Gabby spun around from the stovetop, the wisps of her loosely tied-back hair falling across the side of her fair-skinned face. Noah sat perched upon her hip with Gabby's arm securely around him. The infant's big, sapphire blue eyes (acquired from his father, no doubt) stared across the space to Spot. Another shriek of laughter slipped from Noah's mouth, causing Spot to smile lightly.

"Honey, watch!" said Gabby happily. She stepped away from the stove and set Noah down upon the table's surface, her hands still holding onto his stomach. "Are you watching?" she asked Spot anxiously.

"Yeah." Spot eyed her skeptically, unsure of what to be looking for.

Gabby then took her hands away from Noah so that he sat up on his own. An excited grin danced across her face as she let out two, very small but very giddy leaps on her toes. Spot stared at Noah, half expecting him to stand up and walk around the whole kitchen; he didn't know what the big deal was.

"He's sitting up by himself!" Gabby told him.

Spot raised his eyebrows and let out an "ooh" of astonishment. Weren't all babies supposed to do that? It wasn't as if Noah was taking his first steps or saying his first word…

"Oh, shut up," teased Gabby. "It's the first time he's ever been able to do it. It's a big step for babies to sit up without any help. I've been trying to get him to for the past three weeks."

_Gimme a break_, thought Spot. _I'm new at this_. Even so, he smiled in spite of himself, growing a bit happier by the second. It was the beginning of September 1901, and Noah Patrick had been born nearly six months, to the day, earlier.

Spot sat down at the table with Noah sitting in front of him. His hand rubbed the baby's light brown hair that tended to stand up on occasion; the color resembled Gabby's perfectly. Noah's curious eyes looked up at Spot, his chubby mouth open. Spot's eyes flickered over to the clock on the living room wall. 6:14.

"_Shit_." Spot backed out of his chair quickly and ran to the door.

Gabby looked up from the scrambling eggs on the stovetop. "What?"

"I'm late," said Spot as he headed for the door. "I'll be right back!"

In just his brown wool trousers and a pair of socks, Spot raced down the long and narrow apartment hallway towards the washroom. He had exactly sixteen minutes to dress and run eight blocks to Bedford Furniture, where he and two other boys of his age worked for Robert Bedford building wooden furniture in the backroom. The last two times he had been late, Mr. Bedford had threatened to fire him without a final paycheck. _Third time's a charm_, thought Spot.

He reached for the brass doorknob only to have it opened from the other side. Mrs. Walton, a grumpy woman of religion and sixty-five years, stood before him with a tub of damp, freshly washed clothing in her hands. As soon as she greeted Spot, an irritated expression took over her usually aggravated face. Mrs. Walton was a widow of twelve years, and had never appreciated nor been fond of Spot and Gabby's move to the building several months ago. Her dislike of the couple only worsened once she found Gabby to be pregnant and the couple out of wedlock. The fact that Spot was without a shirt only made matters worse.

"If it isn't Conlon," snarled Mrs. Walton, with a special twinge of scowl on his name. Her pale pink lips pursed into asneer that only accentuated the wrinkles around her pallid face. "Running late again, I see?"

"Uh, yeah," replied Spot blankly. He made to move to the side so she would move along, and he would gain entrance to the washroom.

"You know, I saw Gabrielle and that baby a few nights ago," Mrs. Walton added disdainfully, pushing Spot, who was already to the side, so she could get through. "How do you think the big guy upstairs feels about you and your girlfriend, seeing as how she isn't your wife?"

Spot glared at the stout old woman icily. Nobody called his boy "that baby." And he knew she was referring to God with the last bit.

"Well, if ya really wanna know, I guess you could go all the way _upstairs_ and ask Mr. McDowell ya'self."

Mrs. Walton scoffed, offended at the smart-ass response, and turned on her heels to go back to her apartment, making off-handed comments about the Irish the entire way. Spot shut the door and went over to the sink, added a glob of toothpaste to his brush, and scrubbed his mouth hurriedly.

Mrs. Walton's other comment about Spot and Gabby's relationship had also scratched a nerve: He and Gabby were not married. As far as he could tell, they were pretty much married as it is. They lived together, had a child, and he took care of them. Spot didn't see the point in making it a huge deal.

He spat out the bitter-tasting toothpaste and noticed drops of blood. Obviously, the irritation had driven him to scrub too hard. With a splash of water to his face, he dashed out the door and back down the hallway again.

"When do you think you'll be home tonight?" Gabby called from the kitchen while Spot dressed in the bedroom. She heard a thump against the floor followed by a round of curses, and suppressed the chuckle growing in her throat.

"Uh…I'm not sure. I think around nine…"

Gabby sighed as she fed a bowl of mashed apples to Noah, who rejected nearly every spoonful. She couldn't blame him.

"But Dave's leavin' fer school tomorrow," Spot added suddenly. "I think me and the guys're goin' out…"

Gabby groaned to herself. Ever since Noah was born, Spot had been coming home late from work, and frequently going out with the boys afterward—Jack Kelly, Racetrack Higgins, Skittery Rockwell, and David Jacobs. Gabby often joked to herself that Spot had also had babies with _them_, as opposed to her. Sure, they had their evenings together; but when they did, it was also in the attendance of a very needy baby. It was as if Spot didn't want to face reality just yet...

"I won't be home too late," said Spot as he rushed out of the room buttoning up his navy blue shirt. He scooped a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth. Just before leaving, he gave Gabby a long kiss on the forehead.

"Love you!" he said while darting towards the door.

"Love you," Gabby responded, though he was already out the door and bounding down the staircase. She attempted to feed another bit of apple to Noah, who refused it angrily and turned his head. She touched the place where Spot had kissed her and sighed once more to herself.


	3. High Spirits

"'Notha round fer Dave!"

Jack Kelly smacked the coin down onto the filthy, sodden bar counter beneath his palm. The Edward Street Bar was crawling with men ranging from age sixteen to sixty drinking themselves into higher spirits. The crowded room reeked of smoke, sweat, and gin. It was a Friday night, their busiest night of the week. Citizens of this area of Lower Manhattan often stopped in for the evening after receiving their paychecks for the week.

Tonight being no exception, eighteen-year-old David Jacobs smiled almost sheepishly as Skittery Rockwell filled up five shot glasses of amber liquid before him from behind the bar. The boys that hovered around him—Racetrack Higgins, Jack Kelly, and Spot Conlon—helped themselves to a tiny glass.

"So I wanna just make a toast real quick…" stated Jack with a bit of a slur, his drink clutched in his raised hand.

"Always, makin' a speech, eh Jack?" joked Racetrack as the other boys chortled briefly. "C'mon, there ain't no girls around, just down that shit already!"

The glasses sat anxiously waiting to be devoured in each of the boys' hands as the charismatic Jack Kelly chuckled to himself in thought. It was true—Jack always made speeches. David's slowly glazing, blue eyes shifted from Jack to his drink; this was his third shot, and he wasn't a big drinker in the first place, so he wondered how long Jack was going to wait before he could get it over with.

"Screw it," said Jack finally. "Dave, we're gonna miss ya, pal!"

In unison, the five young men threw back their heads and let the strong liquid burn down their throats. Jack set his empty glass onto the sawdust-covered bar surface and hopped back onto his barstool to face David.

"So why ya gotta be goin' off to school anyway? In Pennsylvania, no less! We ain't gonna see ya too much."

"Yeah, what's up with that?" Spot took a seat on the wooden barstool on the opposite side of David. "Can'tcha just learn shit in 'Hattan?"

"Well…" started David slowly, "it's not really school…I mean it is, but it's not like I'll be in a classroom er anything. I'm just goin' to leave with my aunt and uncle there—he's a professor and he'll be home schooling me until I find a career."

"Ha! Listen to this kid!" Racetrack spun his three-inch glass around in his palm as he leaned his elbows and back onto the edge of the counter. "Don't need no schoolin' to make a little money, Davey. Look at me, I got my own place now and extra money to burn, all 'cause 'a my job."

Racetrack Higgins was born to gamble. It's how he lived life—on odds. So one day after selling the evening edition of the _New York World_, Racetrack waltzed right into O'Reilly's Social Club of Manhattan, placed all his money on a heated round of Texas hold 'em, and ended up with pockets of cash. The owner of the club, Shane O'Reilly, was so impressed by the nineteen-year-old's skill, that Racetrack landed a job as a bookie. Not just as any bet collector, mind you; O'Reilly's was infamous for its nightly attendance of men of all backgrounds to gamble away their large or small paychecks, watch the greatest prizefights of the city, and catch a little action from one, or more, O'Reilly's dancing girls. Racetrack had walked in on a chance, measured the odds, and cashed out as a winner.

"I mean, I see guys gettin' their heads bashed in everyday in the best fights I'se seen since…I don't even _know _when! Men from everywhere flock to the club, and I even seen a few famous ones too." The dark-eyed Italian nodded his head in satisfaction. "Fights, booze, money, girls…still wanna be goin' off to school, Dave?"

David laughed under his breath. "Well, it's a little too late to go back now. I'm already packed and everything's set up over in Pennsylvania. Anyway, it's not really my decision anyway. My parents decided this almost a year ago."

"Davey, Davey, Davey," Spot placed his arm around the intellectual's shoulder. "Ya gotta stop worryin' 'bout what ev'ryone else wants outta ya. I mean, Gabby wanted me to stay home tonight, but did I? Nah. She can take care 'a Noah fer just this night, right?"

It seemed as though the former, most respected newsie in all of New York had forgotten to leave one thing in Brooklyn—his "man's man" quality, the trait that allowed such infamous behavior. In his mind, it was perfectly all right for the keeper of the household to go out and have a drink a few nights of the week after work, with the wife at home with the baby. It was her place, wasn't it? Gabby was a wonderful mother, too, a better parent than Spot would ever be. She knew what Noah wanted, what he needed, and when to give whatever it was to him. So, Spot played off of that concept. He was in the prime of his youth! It was natural for him to satisfy the urge for a boy's night out, even if it _did_ occur up to five times a week.

"Ya gotta _seize the day_, Jacobs. 'Arise an' seize the day.' Ya're eighteen and you ain't gonna look that way fer much longer! Don't go wastin' a couple 'a years bent over a desk with yer face in a book." Spot delivered a playful smack to the back of David's head. "Ya got pretty much the best guys in 'Hattan, if ya ask me…I know I wouldn't wanna leave."

Jack, Racetrack, and Skittery nodded in agreement with Spot's words of wisdom. Skittery, who was employed as a bartender at the Edward Street Bar, scooped up all of their shot glasses. He set them up side by side and, with great skill, poured more liquor into each of the row by a quick glide overtop of them.

"Italian an' Irish've got some good points there, David," said Skittery before knocking back his shot with a brief wince. "I coulda gone to school if I wanted, but I'd be missin' too much. Ya gotta _live_, Davey! And ya know…Ed's always lookin' fer more bartenders here." He raised his eyebrows and smiled as if trying to sell him a job enticingly.

The Walking Mouth smacked his lips together, tasting the aftertaste of whatever it was he had been drinking. He forced a chuckle and sighed. "I'm not sure what you guys are really askin' me to do here," he laughed. "I can't stay, it's already decided."

With a minor slouch of defeat, the rest of the boys nodded slightly and turned around.

"Just come back an' visit as often as ya can, a'right?" directed Jack with his ever magnetic smile.

"Yeah, _then_ we'll live it up as we should be!" added Spot. He clasped a cold mug of beer that Skittery had just served and took a gulp.

The remainder of the evening was spent at the same places of the bar, reminiscing about past times and drinking their way into lighter moods. Skittery continuously served up the drinks, refusing service to most other customers (much to the dislike of his boss), hoping that with enough alcohol, they would change David's mind.

Ever since Spot's move from Brooklyn a year before, the five of them had routinely spent nights out "on the town," David had once called it. Usually they consisted of barhopping and going out to the Brooklyn Bridge to try an walk off their drinks; Spot even had the idea that urinating into the Hudson River would drain you of all alcohol consumed that night, and you were completely free and sober to go home. It was an early, tragic idea.

Although the entire five had only gone out once or twice weekly, there would always be at least someone at the Edward Street Bar waiting to share a drink and conversation. For the most part, it was Jack and David unable to attend most outings, as David had piles of schoolwork, and Jack sometimes had commitments to Sarah Jacobs, his love of two years and sister of the former.

"Well boys…it's benfun," slurred Jack at two o'clock in the morning. "Dave, I'll misszyou, man….I'll misszou." He smacked his hand on the back of David's shoulder a couple of times before simply letting it rest there, with his other hand holding up his head on the bar.

"Y'too…Jack…you too…" replied David. "But yer taking m'home…we don't gotta say bye juss yet."

They stumbled their way out of the bar and into the streets. Racetrack, always able to hold his liquor quite well, grabbed a hold of the back of David's collar and propped him up to walk down the four blocks to the Jacobs' apartment. They got to the end corner when Spot stopped in his tracks and placed his hands on either of his hips.

"What a beautiful night…" he pondered as he looked up at the star-filled sky above him. The black, cloudless night served as a canvas to display thousands of twinkling dots shining in his glazed over, shockingly blue eyes. He suddenly wanted to see Gabby really badly.

Skittery stepped next to him, and soon the other three were planted at the quieted corner half a block from the bar, with their heavy, spinning heads tilted upwards at the sky. Hushed murmurs of its beauty circled around them and their mouths fell agape for nearly a minute. _It's amazing_, Spot thought,_ how beautiful some things can be…once you really, really look at them…_

What regularly took them ten minutes to reach the Jacobs home, took the boys thirty-five. They said farewell to David as he made his way up the five, rigorous flights of stairs, both himself and Jack hanging onto each other for support. The rest walked in silence the rest of their way home. They dropped off Skittery around the corner, and Racetrack a block and a half after that.

What neared a half hour later, Spot staggered up the two flights of his apartment building with an aching pain in his legs the whole way—the only downside to boys night. Before placing his feet onto the final step, he took a breather and tried to pull himself together before getting to apartment 6B, his home, where Gabby would be waiting for him.

A door down the lengthy corridor stretching before him creaked open slowly. Spot's curious eyes darted towards it, successfully able to make out clearly the distant shape of Mrs. Walton. She stood at her doorway in a hideous flower-patterned nightgown, fuzzy gray shawl around her shoulders, and short silver hair under an even uglier nightcap. Her bare foot tapped against the floorboards irritatingly, and her arms folded over defiantly her chest. Upon her face was an expression of utmost disgust as she eyed Spot down the hall.

"A word of advice," began Mrs. Walton in her usual annoyed tone, "the Lord does not favor those who are overly fond of the _drink_, Mr. Conlon. As much as I frown upon your relationship, I can't help but feel extremely _sorry_ for Gabrielle."

It took Spot a few moments to register what she was saying to him. He blinked slowly once realizing that she was insulting him and the way he lived his life. Unfortunately, he was both exhausted and drunk, and unable to dig up any comeback stored in his brain. Finally, without any care in the world, he simply stuck his tongue out and blew a raspberry. Mrs. Walton, more offended by any reply given to her in the past, scoffed and quickly slammed the door.

Once safe inside 6B, Spot kicked off his shoes in random places, threw his shirt somewhere to the ground behind him, and walked into his bedroom. To his left, Noah slept soundly in his crib. In front of him, Gabby slept on the right side of the bed, her usual side, with a kerosene lamp glowing lightly on the nightstand. Spot stumbled over to the foot of the bed and let himself fall face-down onto his pillow. Gabby stirred beside him and turned her head.

"Hi," whispered Spot in a boyish voice, facing her now.

"Hi." Gabby's tone was quick and irritated, and she rolled back over once she saw that Spot was in bed.

"I misstyou." Spot scooted over and planted two loving kisses on Gabby's cheek.

Gabby let out a simple "_mhm,"_ and went back to sleep. Spot sighed again, turned down the light, and situated himself underneath the covers to go to sleep as well. Though he was too drunk to walk a straight line or have normal speech patterns, Spot could have sworn he heard a couple of sniffles from Gabby's side of the bed. And he knew for a fact that she was not sick.


	4. Paradise

**A/N:** One of the things I'm working on, as far improvements go, is symbolism, specifically in this piece. I'm trying to work them into most of the chapters, not just this one. (In fact the only symbol I can think of in this chap is his job--building things like building a new life.) If you think you notice any symbols or pick up on any from here on out, I would very much appreciate it if you drop a review! Thanks!

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He was still running. Spot Conlon had been running all night. In his brain, in his dream, his legs pushed against the pavement with great force. Uphill and never-ending. He wasn't in physical pain, for dreams never involve it, but the memory of such hurt coursed through his mind. 

The city was dead silent, an eerie sort of quiet, without so much as a whispering wind. All he could hear was the heavy breathing from his mouth and the patter of his feet on the ground. The air was frigid cold and every exhale took the shape of a fast evaporating cloud before him. Where was he going?

Spot didn't turn any corners or go down any alleyways; he ran straight ahead of him. Southward. The lifeless city was void of any movement, and it cast a blackish blue atmosphere all around him. The night sky was empty with a lone gray moon. The buildings were dead, black, and dark. His heart was beating furiously now and he didn't know why. Why was he doing this; _what_ was he doing? All he knew was that he had never been more terrified in his entire life. Suddenly, a cold grip grabbed a hold of his arm and spun him around, only to have vanished in front of him.

A gasp. In his Manhattan apartment, Spot Conlon awoke with a startling force jerking him up from his chest. His hairline was slick and the back of his neck was cool and cold. Like his dream, he could hear only his short, quickened breaths. His eyes darted in all directions frantically. A soft, warm touch on his bare arm suddenly comforted him. It brought him down absolutely from the haze between reality and dream. Gabby. She straightened up her torso from the mattress and observed him worriedly through half-open eyes.

"What's wrong?" she mumbled quietly.

"It's…" Spot rubbed his eyes briefly and tried to take a deep breath. His wildly pulsating heart beginning to calm as Gabby rubbed her smooth hand over his goose-bumped flesh.

"I'm okay," he breathed. "It's okay.

"Okay." Gabby dropped her head back down onto the pillow.

Spot blinked a few times and lay back down. As if he needed to protect her, he scooted closer to Gabby and wrapped her arm around her. There was a deep sense of comfort being this closer to her, as though he was connected to her completely.

Gabby's hand ran over his arm gently. Spot took a final deep breath and closed his eyes hoping that he would dream better, if anything at all.

The disconcerting part, however, was that it wasn't the first time he had had the very same dream.

"Ever get those dreams, Benny?" inquired Spot curiously at work the following morning. "Where ya have 'em all the time, same one?"

Benny furrowed his light, bushy eyebrows while he contemplated Spot's question. He squared up the nail on the half-constructed end table. Before responding, he brought down his hammer so the nail was planted deeply into the dark wood.

"Hm…" The strawberry blonde young adult pondered for a moment. "They bahd dreams?" Benny's voice dripped lightly with an Irish accent.

Spot retrieved the sandpaper from the table and began smoothing over cracks of wood sticking out. "I'm not sure. I wake up in a panic every time, though."

"C'mon, c'mon, I need that table finished _today_, boys!" grunted a fifty-year-old man of short stature. Mr. Bedford entered the workroom behind the show floor of Bedford Furniture shop in a huff. "Got a customer waitin' on it for a week. You boys are slower than a woman tryin' figger out the rules 'a poker!"

Aggravated, Mr. Bedford proceeded up the narrow staircase up to his office. Spot held his tongue and tried not to lash out at his boss' pathetic metaphoric insult against their working ability.

That was one thing Spot had had to learn upon moving out of the lodging house: a smart-ass tongue got you nowhere. In reality, he should be thanking old Bedford—landing this job got him out of that dreadful factory. Well, it didn't get him _out_ of the factory as it was his dislike for authority that did that. His former employer had insulted him one too many times while unloading frozen animal parts one day; he said the "Irish was good fer nothin' 'cept plantin' potatoes, the dirty slobs!" because of him thinking Spot was too doing a poor job. So, Spot did what normally would have done—he punched him. (Never _mind_ the fact that he had two people had home to provide). He threw down his gloves at the conveyor belt and walked right out of there before his boss could get up from the floor. Nobody insulted his Irish ethnicity, even if he didn't parade it around with a badge on his chest.

Bedford had also let slip the last time he was late to work a few weeks ago; it had been the third time in a row and he technically should have been fired.

"Anyway…" continued Spot. He sanded a little bit faster. "I keep runnin', in these dreams."

"Runnin'?" repeated Benny, thinking over possible explanations. "'At's a bit odd. Where to? Or from?"

Spot shook his head lightly. "I dunno. But I'm the only on the street and I just keep goin'. It's kinda scary."

Benny brought his hammer down a final time and picked up another nail. "I used to have dreams where I was on a cliff back in Ireland with a friend 'o mine, lookin' o'er the ocean. 'Ad 'em once 'er twice a week for two months. Until one night, in my dream, Tommy an' I were starin' at the ocean, an' I just _pushed_ the lad! No apparent reason. Tommy fell into the water an' I never had that dream again."

"What happened in reality?" asked Spot.

Benny looked up from hammering as if something just dawned on him. "He died," he answered in a surprised yet calm fashion.

Spot halted in sanding. His eyes widened just a bit and he gulped.

"Ah, not to worry, Conlon," Benny shook off. "Nobody's in your dreams to die, right?" He gave a reassuring pat to Spot's shoulder and nailed back to the table.

The small bell from the shop's door chimed outside the backroom. Benny set down the screwdriver in his hand and exited, while Spot finished sawing off an unneeded limb from a rocking chair. He figured it would be another customer piling on a special order, in which case it meant longer hours and harder work. Spot listened for a voice expecting this item or that, in this color, and that type. He was pleasantly surprised, though, to hear Benny speaking to a familiar voice.

"Ah, good mornin' to ya, Gabby!"

"Good seeing you, Benny, how've you been?" The soft, lyrical voice floating into Spot's ears made him smile in content.

"Oh, not so bad. I see this little lad's doin' all right then?"

Gabby's softened chuckle resounded. "Yeah, Noah's holdin' up pretty well. He's getting so big so fast."

Then the thought of both Gabby and Noah lifted him to his feet. Bedford would have to wait a few minutes. He made his way out of the dusty room and into the store area that was decorated with newly built furniture from wall to wall. Gabby stood on the other side of the cashier's counter, opposite Benny. The early afternoon sun pouring in from the large window cast a sort of glow around her small form. It reminded him almost of how they first met; the sun's rays played off her long, chestnut brown hair, similar to what it was doing now.

"Hi honey," greeted Gabby as she set Noah carefully down onto the counter. "I just got done shopping and I brought you some food." She held up a small paper bag folded over at the top.

Spot ambled over next to Benny, as there was no way of getting around the counter from where they were. He leaned over and planted an innocent kiss on Gabby's lips.

"All right, I'll just get back to work!" said Benny as he returned to the other room.

"So thoughtful," said Spot, taking the bag in his hand. He stood back and really, really looked at her for a moment. Even though it had been a rough road getting here, Gabby looked as beautiful as ever, and that was on but a few hours of sleep each night. Motherhood had given her an actual form to her previously skinny, petite body, and Spot was not one to complain—her chest had grown into a quite pleasant size.

Gabby smiled sweetly, the blush of her fair cheek coming into the light along with the evergreen depths of her eyes. Spot was enamored, even after all this time.

Noah interjected a loud mumble from the counter. Spot looked down at the small, chubby-faced infant. Noah's pudgy arms were reaching upward to Spot as he continued with gibberish. A proud smile came onto Spot's face and he lifted his boy to rest comfortably in his arms at his side.

"Baby's doin' well I take it." Spot let his index finger to be taken into Noah's tiny hand to be inspected with the utmost fascination.

"Yeah, he hasn't been too fussy lately, which is almost too good to be true. He seems to do well in public places, I took him to the market with me."

"That's good." Spot's head then snapped quickly towards Gabby. "Wait, ya took him to the _market_?"

Gabby's thin eyebrows furrowed slightly at his hasty reaction. "Yeah, what's the—"

"It's so dangerous there, Gabby! Stuff's goin' on _every_where and it's so crowded. People get shoved and pick pocketed and pushed around and hit, and…you took my baby boy there," replied Spot protectively.

"It was _fine_. Really. We weren't there long, and—Wait a minute, _your_ baby boy? It's not like _you_ had him, Spot. It's not _you_ who gets up in the middle of the night, and it _cer_tainly isn't you who waits on him, hand and foot! I'm the one who actually takes care of him, twenty-four-seven, you know—"

"Oh, don't give me that shit just because I have a job, Gabby! Who puts the food on the table here—"

"And who goes out to _get_ the food, to cook it, and _then_ put it on the table, huh?" Gabby popped her hip out and placed a clenched fist upon it. "Which is what we were doing today, if you wanted to know."

"What's all that goin' on down there?" Mr. Bedford yelled from the top of the steps. "You boys better be workin' on that table!"

Spot let out an irritated sigh. "I gotta get back."

Gabby, still put-off by the minor disagreement, reached over and took Noah into her hold. "See ya tonight," she added miserably and angrily.

"Fine." Spot scooped up the bag she had given him and turned to go back into the workroom. He heard a scoff come from Gabby's direction as he headed for the door.

_Way to go, Conlon_, thought Spot. Who fights over that stuff, honestly? It was all so petty. They had survived far worse than deciding who was the better provider. She had betrayed him entirely, lied and deceived him, a year ago when she was working for his enemy the entire time. _This is stupid._

Spot stopped. He turned on his heels just as he entered the room, and headed back to the store.

"Gabby," he called from behind the counter just as she reached the door. She turned to face him, nearly annoyed but knowing this would happen.

"You know I love you," began Spot, "I'm just stressed out right now. I'm…" he trailed.

"You're what, Spot?" There was a blatant tone of irritated exhaustion in her questioning voice as if this had happened before. She knew what he wanted to say.

_Sorry_, he thought. _I'm sorry_. But Spot Conlon never apologizes for anything, even if he stood before the mother of a man he just killed with the gun in his hands. He simply pressed his lips together and stared at her without speaking.

A fed-up sigh came from Gabby's lips as she shook her head slightly. "You still can't say it. A year and a half with me and you can't even say it." She yanked open the door forcefully and stormed out.

Spot, frustrated that he couldn't patch things up, walked back into the other room.

Welcome to paradise.


	5. Something Missing

**A/N:** Forgive me for the absence! Soccer and school have gotten the better of me and I simply haven't found the time. But here I am, updating for you all to enjoy! Let's see where we were…Ah yes, Spot and Gabby were having a little bit of trouble in paradise after a little tiff at Spot's shop. Spot also had this wacked out dream and we learn he has been having them for a while now. Interesting, very interesting. Shall we proceed?

Oh, I would also like to apologize for the amount of error in the last chapter—it's not that I spelled things wrong terribly, there was just a lot of weird word structure! I went back and read it and I thought, was I on drugs or something? I'll be more careful in the future and watch the syntax!

* * *

It's custom for Spot Conlon and Jack Kelly to drown their sorrows in a bottle of rum after a bad day. Rent wasn't paid. Didn't get much sleep. Hard day at work. Shoelace broke. Weather was cloudy. Take your pick. Any little obstacle was cause for a need to feed the urge for a good a drink grumbling around in their stomachs. 

"Things are gettin' worse," said Spot miserably. He sat in corner of a wooden booth and rain-covered window in the Edward Street Bar, and his feet stretched out so that no one would sit next to him. His hand held limply the bottle of dark rum on the table and the other hand pinched each side of his temple trying to work out a migraine.

"You an' Gabby?" inquired Jack Kelly. He tossed his head back in a swig of vodka and leaned his arm onto the table.

"Yeah. That an' ev'rything else that's fucked up right now." Spot straightened up and folded his arms so that his elbows sat droopily on the table. "We keep fightin' all the time. Just last week she came into the shop and we argued. I coulda gotten fired. An' last night Noah was cryin' and she got up to…I dunno, take care 'a him, and this morning she was mad at me for it. 'S bullshit."

"Thank god Sarah hasn't had one 'a those yet," said Jack in reference to a child. "I'm not sure I'd handle it."

Spot looked up at him weirdly and said flatly, "Thanks. That helps."

Jack shrugged it off and inhaled on his cigarette. He twirled his red bandana that he had had forever around his fingers, a habit he had picked up when things started to get gloomy. The bar seemed slower than usual, not quite as exciting. David had been gone for weeks, Skittery was out with some girl he had picked up days before, and Racetrack was working at O'Reilly's.

"Somethin' don't feel right eitha," said Spot.

"Whaddya mean?"

"Like there's somethin' I'm forgettin' about…It's been botherin' me fer a while. Somethin' don't seem to be sittin' good with me but I can't put my finger on it. And I keep havin' these dreams, I don't know what's goin' with 'em. It ain't normal, I can tell ya that." Spot brought his drink up to his lips and sighed. The liquid traveled slowly down to the pit of his stomach.

The bell above the bar's door rang and Spot noticed a girl enter out of his peripheral vision. She sat at the bar and Spot glanced at her quickly. She seemed as old as he was, but the makeup and tight-fitting clothing aged her at least five years.

"I'm not sure what ya mean," said Jack, confused, bringing Spot back. "Kinda like ya lost somethin' an' ya can't find it again? That whatcha mean?"

Spot squinted as he thought about it. "Lil' bit."

Jack furrowed his eyebrows and let out a long sigh. He dug around his pockets and left a few coins on the table. "I gotta get back home. Sarah's been kinda mad I've been goin' out so much."

Spot rolled his eyes to himself and mumbled an insult to Jack beneath his rum-soaked breath. Jack, with a tip of his cowboy hat, exited to the misty humid streets.

Spot slouched back against the booth and outstretched his legs underneath the table. He reached for the key around his neck, which had been there for as long as he could recall, but then remembered he had given it to Gabby some time ago. He did not know what made him think he didn't wear it anymore. Why did he give it to her in the first place? Oh, yeah: He loved her. But that was his _key_…

Was that what was missing? The thing that didn't feel right? He closed his eyes and imagined it around his neck again. Nope, wasn't it; he didn't feel an imagined rush of relief come to him.

The bottle was half empty and it stared back at him, begging to be consumed. Conlon gave in, not that he was ever strong-willed to pass up a drink. After an hour of contemplating life's deepest questions and spinning one of Jack's coins about the table, Spot decided it was time to get back home. He set his money down next to the blatantly empty bottle of rum and set his hat atop his aching head.

Just as he began to turn towards the doorway, a heavily made-up face came to his. It was light with charcoal around its brown, doe eyes, with a mess of light curls framing it. It was the girl he had seen earlier. She had a form of a smirk across her rich, red lips. Cherry red.

"Hi," the girl said in a breathy voice that seemed to swirl from the tip of her tongue all the way down to her buxom cleavage.

_Cherries sounded good…_

"Hi."

* * *

Gabby brushed her finger against Noah's soft, chubby cheek. He stared up at her from his crib, a string of drool forming on the corner of his mouth. Had she not seen this and cleaned it up on an hourly basis, she'd have thought this cute. Gabby simply sighed and wiped it away with his blanket. _At least he's finally quiet_, she thought. Noah had been fussy since the afternoon and it was nearing eight o'clock.

Hoping that her son would quietly slip into a peaceful slumber, Gabby tip-toed out of the room and plopped herself onto the couch. Her pale face gazed up at the ceiling and her eyes fluttered to a close. Her back ached from constantly carrying Noah, her eyes were hardly awake from the lack of sleep, and along her fingers were splinters from the table Spot had promised to clean up and never did.

Something inside her wanted to wait for Spot to get home; it was seldom that she was _ever_ awake when he did arrive, so perhaps something different was in order for tonight. Gabby's will, however, had left her a long time ago; she still loved Spot more than anything, but her head kept telling her that she needed to get some sleep. Lots of it. So, with her eyelids preventing anything else from entering her mind, Gabby allowed herself a good night's sleep.

At ten o'clock, a twisted doorknob brought Gabby from her heavy rest and to an upright position. Spot had come home and was slowly shutting the door behind him as if he were sneaking in from doing something wrong. The two stared at each other for a brief moment.

"Ya're up," greeted Spot.

"Yes, I know," replied Gabby in an even tone. She got to her feet and rubbed her eyes. "Don't make noise. Noah's asleep."

Spot took off his shoes at the doorway while Gabby walked over to shut off the kitchen light. Gabby looked at Spot as he walked by. In the light provided, she noticed something very subtle that startled her.

"Spot."

"Hm?" He turned to face her with a blank, melancholy countenance. His eyes were so blazed it look as though he were staring into a fire.

Gabby's eyebrows furrowed immediately as she marched over to him. She took his face in her hands and looked at it thoroughly. Spot began misreading her signals, touching her hips and waist suggestively. Gabby turned his face to the side so that his left cheek was in full light. There it was.

A faint red smudge lay upon his cheek, screaming at her piercingly. Gabby gasped to herself and her heat sank deeply. Spot rubbed his fingers against her stomach, unaware of what happened. Gabby's heart sped as she checked his lips and other cheek, paying no heed to the stench of alcohol in her face. She scanned all the way down his neck, pulling open the top part of his shirt, finding one more smear close to his collarbone. She brought her nose to his skin and took in the slight essence of lavender.

Gabby's lower lip began to quiver and she dug her teeth into it. Believing the ultimate proof was in his kiss, for the ones they shared were always meaningful, she pressed her lips firmly against his. Spot responded with an awakened surprise and dove in deeper. Gabby waited out her test for a few seconds and pulled back. Suddenly the grip on her waist was not as tight. He did not seem as close.

She was about to break down, and worst of all, she was going to break down in his arms. Gabby stepped back, to the dislike of Spot, and turned out the light. Tears burned scalding hot in her eyes as she held her breath.

The distance could have been the entire earth that night as they lay shoulder to shoulder in the same bed. It was confirmed now. Absolute. They were slowly but surely growing apart and the forces driving them seemed unstoppable. Something was missing in Spot, and something huge was missing with Gabby as well.


	6. Hunger

Crouching over the toilet in the cramped bathroom stall, Spot shoved two fingers to the back of his throat. He hated doing this. In fact, if you asked him, Spot would tell you he has never made himself throw up. It was a sign of weakness. His gag reflex activated alarmingly and his stomach spilled out before him within no time. _Charming_, he thought.

No, this was not the price he was paying for too much fun the night before. Nor was he sick. This was something itching to get out. It was driving him to the point where he could not fight it any longer and he chose to regurgitate it back up. Spot had had another sleepless night. He had tossed and turned in his sheets, the same dreams plaguing his mind.

_Running, sprinting, racing_…He had entered the same place he always did: A dead and lifeless city without any inhabitants. He had been alone again. He had dashed through the streets with but a sliver of moonlight ahead of him, once more going south. Until he had stopped. He had rounded a corner and stopped directly in front of a run-down building. This place, this once-strong edifice seemed as if it had braved everything and it was on its last thread of hope.

The cold, bone-chilling breeze felt like it had been sucking the air right from his lungs. Then there had been movement. Just ahead of him, through the decrepit, black doorway of the tall and crumbling building. His feet had taken him there, all the way until the doorstep. His numb fingers pushed open the door and what terrifying thing before him had knocked him off his feet and onto his back.

Before Spot had a chance to see what it was, he was awake. His flesh crawled with goosebumps and his chest heaved in and out dramatically. Gabby had not woken up; she never really did anymore. He lay awake for the remainder of the night. Thinking of the dream and the uneasiness it gave him drove him to the bathroom stall that morning.

At work, Spot got Benny to cover for him after his lunch break. He had to meet Bolt. They hadn't seen each other in over and month, and were long overdue for catching up.

The Brooklyn Bridge stood before him on the horizon while Spot sat casually at an empty spot near the Hudson River docks. It wasn't a very ideal place to meet an old friend: the strong smell of dead fish created a suffocating cloud of rotten stench. With the current condition of his stomach, Spot seriously considered walking away. Nevertheless, the bridge before him overtook the smell, for it brought him comfort.

"Hey," came a familiar voice behind him.

Spot turned his head at a glance and came back. Not a second later did he realize it was Bolt. Without Bolt's usual, whimsical greeting, Spot did not know who it was.

"Oh, hey." Spot got to his feet and looked at his oldest friend; he barely even recognized him. Bolt was thinner than his usual lean. He was _skinny_. His face had grown much paler and his light brown hair lay flat on his head.

"How ya been?" asked Bolt in an exhausted voice. A smile strained onto his bony face. It was not the type of smile one paints on against their will; it was truly difficult for Bolt to smile. His cheeks were no longer and his eyes seemed exasperated and tired.

"I'm all right." Spot was unsure whether to ask him how he had been. He suddenly felt terrible for making Bolt walk all of this way just to meet him for conversation. It looked like a light breeze would send him away.

"Good to hear." Bolt's brown eyes traveled to one of the fisherman on the docks as he rubbed the back of his neck. Spot noticed his left eye was healing from a small bruise.

"Ya wanna get some lunch?" inquired Spot hopefully. The boy needed to eat.

Bolt furrowed his eyebrows and dug around his trouser pockets pulling out the tip of only a limp cigarette. No jingling of change was to be heard. "Uh…"

"I got it, don't worry 'bout it," offered Spot.

"No, it's—"

"Bolt."

There was a long pause as if agreeing to a free lunch was painfully hard. "Okay."

Tibby's Restaurant was fairly busy while they waited on their food to be served. Bolt had been tapping his fingers nervously against the table for some time now, and if Spot looked under the table he would find Bolt's foot tapping against the ground incessantly. Cigarettes and coffee was the routine meal for him now, Spot deduced. Bolt needed a full meal. Or two, or three.

"How's life treatin' ya now?" asked Spot carefully. "How's Brooklyn?"

"It's all right…I mean, how excitin' can sellin' papahs be?" answered Bolt. He grabbed the glass of soda in front of him and gulped it down.

Immediately the response did not set well with Spot. It spoke volumes of trouble and he could call out Bolt's bluff with ease. And Bolt was so good at poker…

"I don't buy it," spoke Spot.

Bolt's eyes looked up at his friend's skeptical stare. He sat back and threw his palms upward. "Well, what the hell d'ya want me to say, Spot?"

There again was a hint of Bolt's lost character. He had always called him "Conlon." Only a few situations arose in which Spot was called his first name by Bolt.

"I dunno, I mean, are things slow, they good, any problems with the boys? That kinda stuff," sighed Spot in an aggravated tone. He watched Bolt outline the rim of his glass while he drummed his fingers quickly against the polished wood surface. Spot reached to his hand and stopped Bolt from any more movement. "You ain't tellin' me somethin'."

Bolt's knitted eyebrows loosened as he let loose the grip on the drink. "It just ain' the same as it used to be is all. Sales is average, we ain't 'at war' with anyones. 'Cept Queens boys keep leakin' in to our turf still." An irritated scoff came from his mouth as he shook his head.

Spot reacted quizzically, surprised. "Queens? Thought we settled that." _How could anyone forget…_

"Yeah, me too. But soon as you left they started comin' in to sell our papes and goin' back to Queens at the end 'a the day. And that's a damn far walk just to be sellin' in Brooklyn."

"Just tell 'em to get lost!" Spot's voice rose an octave at Bolt's indifference. "Whatsa mattah with 'em? Why would they wanna sell our stuff anyway…?"

"We _did_. They don't listen. They don't got a leadah. They come in, spend the day heah, and pick fights with our guys. And they know we know who's from Queens and who's from Brooklyn. Thompson and I been tryin' to haul 'em out everyday but they just keep on comin'."

Spot let out a disappointed sigh. "How many come to Brooklyn?"

Bolt looked up in thought. "Started out with a couple of 'em. Then it got to be near nine or ten. Now it's almost fifeen. They don't even buy that many papes so it ain't like they showin' off how good they are. They just come in, get around twenty, twenty-five papahs, and bug the hell outta ev'ryone. It's like they just doin' it to be pests."

"'Course they're pests. When have you known 'em _not _to be pests?"

The waiter came around and brought their lunch to the table. Bolt spared no time getting to his bowl of hot vegetable soup and bread. He stuffed it all down so fast Spot worried he would choke himself to death.

"We barely e'en do an'thing to 'em now," said Bolt through a mouthful of bread. "We just don't see the point in tryin' to get 'em to leave when they won't."

Spot dropped his sandwich inches before getting to his mouth. "Did I _heah_ you right?"

Bolt looked up with a puzzled look.

Spot threw his sandwich back down to the plate. "Bolt, ya can't just _let_ 'em get away with ev'rything! That's givin' 'em power over you, and I did _not_ fight last yeah just so they can come back in and do whatever the hell they want. Might not seem like a big deal that they ain't doin' anythin', but it's still the fact they got they balls to do it. Don't forget which territory you'se from."

Bolt gulped down his food slowly at a loss for words.

It quickly became evident that Brooklyn lacked the reputation it very much deserved. As he walked about the street after lunch, Spot tried his best to let out the aggravation it all gave him. Was he that valuable to Brooklyn that it fell apart once he left? Did he choose the wrong person to continue him? Bolt was his first and only choice for the job; he would not have it any other way. So why was everything so messed up?

Spot kicked a rock hard in front of him and it hit the ankle of a girl standing outside an apartment building. He looked up and the girl looked at her leg, then back up at Spot, and instantly smiled.

"Hey you," she said in a certainly-happy-to-see-_you_ sort of way.

"Oh. Hey Kat," replied Spot carelessly. It was the girl from the bar last week. The girl with cherry red lipstick.

Kat glided over in her bust-friendly dress and placed a long kiss on his cheek; Spot definitely felt a pinch the lower side of his hips too. He did not, however, return the pleasant greeting with his hands in his pockets.

"You okay? Ya look like someone just killed your best friend."

_It looks like it_, thought Spot with an image of the new Bolt entering his mind. "I'm sorta dealin' with a lot right now."

"Well, you wanna come upstairs and we can talk about it?" Even in her friendly tone she sounded sultry. "I'll make us some tea and we can talk about what's botherin' you. Just us. Away from the noisy, crowded streets. You an' me."

Something told Spot that even if they _did_ go upstairs, _just them_, Kat would still enjoy the audience of the "noisy, crowded streets." He knew there would be very little tea involved.

Spot thought about this for a very long time. So long, in fact, he forgot he hadn't given Kat an answer. "Let's just take a walk."

A look of defeat washed over her face very faintly until she said reluctantly, "Okay." She turned to the side and waited for Spot to join her.

Spot swallowed down and took a deep breath. There was no harm in going for a little walk, was there? It's not like Gabby would have time to listen to everything anyway, and by now she was so fed up with him that she would sooner knock him out than help him sort through problems. No, he was not breaking any rules and cheating any sort of system by going for a walk. Right?

It was when his hand slid around Kat's hips as they strolled past her apartment building that he felt a twinge of guilt come over him. Kat then scooted in closer to his side and brushed her hand up around his opposite cheek, stroking over the firm jaw line.

Spot did not look at her, even though he felt her gaze, and continued to walk. He brought her hand down from his face but still held onto her hips, his face unmoving. Acting only on impulse and hardly any sense, he swiftly walked Kat over to the side of an alley and pinned her against the brick. Ignoring the purr of giggle issuing from her throat, he gripped her shoulders and kissed her lips. Hard.

* * *

**A/N:** I hope you're enjoying this one as much as the last. I am, just because I want to explore each character more. It's very different, I know. But I hope you're getting to see the main purpose of the story--the difficulty of leaving a world you've known all your life and starting a new one, specifically with Spot and Gabby. I know it is a little dark and depressing, but hey, I've created these lives so we don't have to live them! Post your thoughts...


	7. Italy and Ireland

**A/N:** Yay! I had time to post! This is a long one, but don't give up on it! There's a good reason why I wanted to post so badly!

* * *

"He's got Spot's eyes," said Sarah Jacobs. "There's not doubt about that."

Gabby smiled faintly to herself as she watched Noah play with Sarah's delicate fingers. No matter how angry she was with Spot, a piece of her couldn't help but smile when she looked at her son's eyes.

She noticed how Sarah Jacobs looked happy. Sarah Jacobs wore a smile that concealed anything out of place in her life. Sarah Jacobs was good at being and pretending. Noah sat in Sarah's lap as her chocolate brown eyes danced with delight at the joy an infant brought to her. Something deep within Gabby wanted to cry as she watched.

"He's well-behaved," Sarah told Gabby, turning towards her. "He hasn't made a fuss all night, even at dinner."

"Yeah" was all Gabby could say in reply. It was Thanksgiving, she should be thankful at least. The Jacobs were kind enough to invite Spot, Gabby, and Noah to dinner at their new apartment. Hell, they practically _begged_ them to come over; David had come home for a visit from Pennsylvania and they wanted a celebratory get-together.

Aside from the feeling of being useless in terms of providing her own dinner, Gabby was feeling_ so_ thankful that it made her jealous. She envied the care the Jacobs had given their family and how well they kept everything together. Even if something bad beneath the surface had happened, they had everybody fooled. Gabby felt bare and vulnerable and desperate.

Not far from the couch, Meyer and Esther Jacobs sat at the wooden table of the kitchen with Spot, Jack, Les Jacobs, and David. The eldest son talked in great-length about the opportunities his Uncle William had given him. He was studying business in Pennsylvania. But Esther and Meyer were not jealous of William, Esther's successful brother; instead, they were bursting with pride, and it baffled Gabby. Even Spot and Jack had the same looks on their faces. Spot. He refused not to bow down to the great David, though, Gabby could tell. He subtly acted superior to him even if it was not all too visible. Gabby was disgusted.

Sarah rubbed her pure index finger over Noah's soft cheek. The baby giggled, causing more happiness from Sarah. A sudden surge of emotion surfaced with Gabby and she found her eyes to be drowning. Quickly she stood up and grabbed her coat.

"I'm going to get some fresh air," she said hastily.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

The balcony was a convenient escape. It was high enough to hear yourself think but low enough to keep you grounded. Gabby's tears flooded down her cheeks and she couldn't help but be embarrassed in her loneliness.

_What is this?_ thought Gabby. _I never used to cry like this_. The biting, November breeze wiped any trace of tears from her cheeks, and as the minutes passed she seemed to pull herself together bit by bit. The window from inside opened carefully and Jack Kelly climbed onto the small, iron balcony.

"Takin' a break?"

Gabby sighed. "Yeah, I suppose you could say that."

Jack joined her as he imitated her elbows placed dependently on the rail. He pulled out a cigarette. "We all need some 'a those once in a while."

"Too right you are," replied Gabby in a helpless tone.

"You feelin' okay?" inquired Jack worriedly.

"Yes, I'm fine."

"I think ya're lyin' to me." Jack stuck the cigarette between his lips and cupped his hand so the wind wouldn't blow out the match. "Ya're not one 'a those people that can hide things real easy, I'se noticed."

Gabby was unsure of how to respond. Yes, she knew that. What was he trying to say to her?

"I'm dealin' with a lot right now, okay?" Gabby could feel the desperation slowly seeping out. She didn't want to stop it but there it was.

"I understand. Spot said you two are goin' through a rough patch right now."

"Did he, now?" Gabby quirked an eyebrow and brought it back down again. "What exactly does he tell you guys? I mean, you probably know more about our relationship than I do."

Jack pressed his lips together and Gabby could tell that she had put him in an awkward position. "Sorry."

"That makes two of us," muttered Gabby beneath her breath. Her hands reached her face and she held them there, rubbing her temples. Her eyes felt puffy and rubbed raw. She was in that naked state of emotion again in front of Spot's best friend.

Jack wrapped his arm around Gabby's shoulder and rubbed her arm gently. The touch was not at all breaching the bounds of friendship for it brought her comfort. A simple act of somehow saying "it's going to be okay" was something she needed at the time. She felt a little better about herself. Until…

"Somethin' goin' on out here?"

Jack and Gabby turned around and saw Spot standing in the window frame. His hands gripped the window sill and the muscles in his forearms were visible. A puzzled stare, masked by suspicion, took his face and made a shudder rake through Gabby's body.

"Hey…" said Jack awkwardly. "Just, uh, smokin' a cig real quick."

Spot glared at Gabby while he spoke.

"Well," Spot turned his gaze to Jack, "we're leavin' soon."

Jack nodded and climbed back into the window. Gabby hesitated a moment and followed suit. As if seven nights of the week were not enough, the boys were going out again. "It's to celebrate Dave bein' home," Spot had told her a few nights ago.

Gabby joined Sarah at the couch while everyone else said goodbye for the night. Noah was still cradled in Sarah's arms and she still wore an expression of absolute glee. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

"Fuck!" shouted Racetrack over the deafening noises. "Ya see that?"

The boys' necks craned from the bar over the sea of suited and sweaty men. The prize fight in the center O'Reilly's Social Club had delivered a powerful uproar as the burly German man clobbered the short American.

"Smashed the guy's head right into ground!" Racetrack stood on his toes to catch a better view. "Ya guys're missin' the best fight 'a the night!"

Skittery threw his head back into a shot of strong vodka and grabbed David by the back of his collar. The two made an attempt to work through the crowd of greedy, crude spectators. The men ranged from twenty to seventy, clutching money in their hands and bellowing their voices in a mist of liquor and alcohol.

Spot cringed in tasteless pleasure as the American threw an unexpected clout to the German's bare back. The larger man stumbled to his knee, fighting to get back up again, though the stout American took full advantage of the man's position. Spot set down his mug of beer as the sound of three crisp claps against the wooden floor rang out and the American raised his arm in triumph. He let out a congratulatory holler and brought his hands together in a round of claps amidst the cheering and booing of the men.

"Man, do I love my job!" laughed Racetrack. "Still wanna go back to school, Davey?"

David ambled back towards the bar where Racetrack, Jack, Spot, and Skittery sat in a row. He answered in chuckle, "Not really! You can't get that shit in Pennsylvania."

The group turned their attention, much like the rest of the room, towards the meager stage near the back of the open-spaced building. A piano began its jolly tune and a line of scantily-clad young women emerged from behind the green velvet curtain. Delighted cheers arose from the room as the tassels of their corset costumes shook and wiggled to the beat of the music.

"Or that," finished David once he turned his head to see the show. He hopped up on a barstool next to Racetrack and let out a contented sigh. "When's the next fight gonna start?"

"Cool it, kid, give 'em time fer a breather." Racetrack had an air of superiority that he held over those who did not have the pleasure of working at such an exciting Club.

Spot tapped his fingers along the edge of the bar and watched the stage. It was far away but he could still imagine the girls to be somewhat like Kat. Eager and willing. Given the atmosphere about him, with all the makings of underworld society, he wanted to see her. No, he wanted to kiss her and have his way with her because someone else wasn't going to let him. It made him angry—furious—that he couldn't be close to Gabby anymore; at least _some_body showed an interest in him. He hadn't slept with Kat yet, but as God as his witness he was going to. In his mind, it just had to be done.

"I don't think the American's comin' back to fight," said Jack.. "Or the German fella."

"Well, who in the hell's gonna provide the entertainment now?" reacted David in a tone fit for a toddler. He slammed a dollar bill onto the bar. "I need fight!"

"I agree," added Spot. "Haven't soaked anyone good in forever. Musta been Tyce and I think we all know how that ended."

"Yeah," laughed Jack. "Same heah, I think mine was Jumper from Harlem. Didn't quite finish him off, but we roughed 'im up pretty good. Hope I nevah see that piece 'a shit again as long as I live."

"I paid my money, now I wanna see a fight!" yelled David.

"Well said, junior!" interrupted the bartender of fifty years. He let out a raspy laugh and served him another glass of whiskey. He walked out from behind the counter and yelled to the room, "Hey! Can we see some skull-bashin' around heah?"

Spot flipped a coin in his hand while the old man began bribing customers right in front of him, screaming "free drinks to the winna, c'mon, c'mon, don't be shy, boys! This is a Social Club, we gotta get some excitement goin' on!" Spot laughed to himself.

A few men rose from their seats, forming a large circle and looking around to scope out any candidates. Spot's coin flipped into the air and back down again, falling to the floor. He hopped down from his barstool, a dizzier feeling washing over him much more so than he expected, and bent down to find it.

"C'mon…whoa, wait here fellas!" shouted the bartender. "This one heah's itchin' to knock a few out!"

Spot felt around the wooden floor looking for his priceless coin. Where _was_ that damn thing? He knocked into feet and legs hoping to feel it under his hand. Suddenly he felt something grab the back of his collar and he was hoisted up onto his feet.

"We got one!"

"What?" asked Spot, utterly confused.

"Don't be shy, son, go on out there!"

Spot's eyes darted from side to side and noticed a bunch of men patting him on the back, grabbing at his jacket to get it off. He looked back at his friends in bewilderment and saw that they simply went along with the rest, cheering on Spot to prize fight.

He had to laugh for a moment, for he soon found himself in the middle of the room surrounded by the men that, not long ago, were rooting for the best man to win. He removed his jacket and shirt, throwing them back behind him. He was about to fight somebody any minute now and he felt a rush; it had been a while since he beat the shit out of someone.

After Queens, Spot was prepared to fight anyone from any territory, no matter what their relationship to Brooklyn was. Harlem, mostly, because that Jumper character made him want to kill something, not to mention the fact that Jumper was on the side of Queens during the war. The Bronx leader, Tommy Timms always rubbed him the wrong way. Midtown's Woodson Adams was always too cocky for him. Even Manhattan's Jack Kelly pissed him off sometimes; tonight catching him with Gabby was no exception.

"All right, all right!" Shane O'Reilly held up his hands to ease the wild crowd. "You're forgettin', boys, we need another person in this fight! Is there anyone who wants to fight—" He turned his head to Spot, "What's yer name, kid?"

"Conlon."

"You an Irish?" mumbled O'Reilly.

Spot glared at him. O'Reilly turned to the crowd again.

"Irish! I got one fresh off the boat, men, and I need someone to take 'im on!" He turned to Spot again who had a questioning stare. "They get more fired up if you're an immigrant. More excitement, more money fer me."

Spot was offended that anyone would think him a boat-ridden potato boy from Ireland. "I was _born_ heah, O'Reilly."

"And you'll die here, too, don't make any difference to me or the _rest_ 'a these guys. Irish, Italian, German…it's all the same." O'Reilly circled the room. "Anyone, anyone at all lookin' to clobber this Irish fella I got heah!"

"I'll do it!"

A strong, fierce voice parted the room from the entrance. All eyes searched around the room in the same direction. The only thing Spot could see was the divide of the mass of men in which his opponent was creating a path.

"At least look intimidating, boy!" whispered O'Reilly loudly to Spot.

Regretting that he had been drinking, Spot turned around so that his back was facing his challenger. He raised his arms up with the Conlon smirk spread across his face and the men in his favor began applauding and shouting rowdily in support. He noticed Racetrack, Jack, Skittery, and David had made their way to the front. Racetrack stepped into the circle and yanked Spot's arm above him as if he had already won.

"Who is this guy comin' up?" asked Spot.

"Don't know."

After a minute of pumping the crowd up to his liking, O'Reilly brought the men to a hush as best as he could. They turned around and waited in anticipation for the opponent's introduction.

"Gentlemen, it is my pleasure," started O'Reilly, "to give another immigrant for Irish to fight!"

A massive uproar erupted throughout the room.

"Not just another immigrant, but an Italian!"

Even louder cheering. People love pure hatred that takes the form of a fight, and even though everyone hated the Irish, they also hated Italians just the same.

"I give you, Mr. Ireland, Johnny Salvini!"

O'Reilly moved out of the way so that the start of the Italy train was revealed. The guy had his hat tipped below his eyes, but it was evident that he was Spot's age. His skin was light and fair, and his hair was dark, much like Racetrack.

Spot marched up to the center of the circle to wait impatiently for this guy. As the Italian took his time unbuttoning his shirt, something inside him made his stomach drop.

"Hey Race, is that…"

Italy took his hat off.

"No…"

Conlon's speeding pulse. O'Reilly's customers going crazy.

Italy smirked. And Ireland stood there in disbelief.

"Jumper."


	8. PunchDrunk

_No, no, this isn't happening…_Spot's mind raced out of control. He stood there face to face with Jumper—Johnny Salvini—and did not believe it was real. Waves of mutual hatred and loathing bounced to one and rebounded right back into the other's face with a force. 

The noises of the chaotic screaming crowd meshed into nothingness and Spot could only see in front of him the devilish grin of the boy from Harlem. He never knew Jumper was Italian; sure, he had resembled Racetrack in some ways, but he never spoke with an accent or came across with strong Italian features. Come to think of it, Spot wasn't any more Irish than Jumper was Italian. They did not live where most immigrants lived and neither of them sported their backgrounds on their sleeves. It flowed through their veins and that was all.

"On my whistle, boys," said O'Reilly. His red face was slick with sweat as he raised his arm to the room so engrossed in watching the contenders rip each other to shreds.

Spot's jaw was locked so hard that he nearly shattered his teeth. All he could think about what this meant. Jumper was in Manhattan. Was it for good? Was he still a newsie? Why would he come to Manhattan in the first place?

Suddenly the high-pitched whistle blew and before Spot came back to reality, a punch had been thrown to his cheek. The room erupted in unison and the match was on. After a second of blinking his eyes, Spot felt the adrenaline pumping back through his system. His muscles came alive all over, from his shoulders to his toes. He swung and missed by an inch; damn, it had been a long time.

Jumper sent his powerful fist towards Spot's face again. Spot, this time, ducked. He charged Jumper's stomach and shoved him back so he was against a wooden pole. The men scooted back as not to disrupt the fight. They clapped and rooted their arms.

Spot balled up his hand tightly and delivered a forceful clout to Jumper's nose. Blood immediately began seeping out. He grabbed Jumper's chin and reeled his arm back for more damage. Then, Jumper brought his arms up and pushed his way out of Spot's hold; in turn, Spot's strong fist ended up colliding directly into the pole, the bones in his fingers and knuckles shoved back further to his hand. A loud "ooh" sprang from the crowd, feeling Spot's pain.

Ireland paused for a second to cradle his hand in excruciating pain. A simple shove from behind reminded him that he wasn't finished. Spot turned around and dodged Jumper heading towards him. Moving out of the way in the nick of time, Spot ended up behind Jumper. He clenched his left hand into a fist and pounded it into the small of Jumper's back.

Italy fell to a knee with his back arched in reaction. He stumbled to his feet and Spot grabbed him by the arm to yank him back up. As if sudden strength had dropped from the sky, Jumper sent his fist to Spot's stomach, and Spot instinctively wrapped his arm around it, crouching. Jumper grabbed the root of Spot's hair and nailed him in the face.

The room suddenly spun around in Spot's eyes and it became black. His ribs were shattered, he thought. All of them, they felt broken. When he started to come back, after what felt like forever, he was on the floor with his back against the blood-spattered ground. Hands tapped at his aching flesh and men were behind him and above him, urging him to get back up.

"Get up, boy, _get up_!"

"Don't just lay there, get up and keep fighting!"

But something inside Spot forbade him to get up. There was something inside him that stuck him to the ground. He watched Jumper make his way over on a limp, blood staining his nose and face; he was just as exhausted as Spot. Jumper stood above him and Spot impulsively brought up his leg and locked it behind Jumper's knees. He kicked, and Jumper was sent crashing to the ground beside him.

The men around him cheered, some hissed. Jumper had landed hard on his back, and his head had smacked the floor hard. He was unconscious for a few moments, and Spot saw him weakly raise his head, a dazed look on his face. Soon Jumper was surrounded by his group of Italian backup, and Spot brought his arm up to cover his eyes. The scene faded into a memory.

"Hold still," said Skittery outside the club. He put a strong hold on Spot's wrist with one hand and squeezed his index finger with the other. "This'll only hurt fer a second."

"What are ya doin'…" asked Spot tentatively.  
Skittery hesitated a moment and yanked Spot's finger forward with a startling jolt.

"SHIT, Skittery!" howled Spot in pain. "What the hell's a matta' with you!" He crouched over the wooden box he had been sitting on and held his throbbing finger.

"Look, yer bones're all messed up in ya hand," informed Skittery with an impatient tone. "I'm just settin' 'em back in place." He grabbed Spot's wrist again and jerked forward his middle finger.

Spot belted out another wail of pain and followed with a round of curses that would put a sailor in his place.

"Believe me, it's a lot better'n havin' a jacked up hand," reassured Skittery. He gripped Spot's ring finger and tugged hard. Spot suppressed his pain with great difficulty, biting down on his lip to distract himself.

"Ya hit that pole pretty hard there, champ," teased Racetrack. "But ya did a good job bruisin' up Jumper a lil' bit…  
"Go ta hell, Race," snapped Spot. Skittery yanked his pinky, the last finger to be dislocated and jerked back into place. "SHIT!"

The small group of boys sat a block away from O'Reilly's club near the docks of the Hudson River. The hopes of being a fun night out were instantly broken when the Italian fighter turned out to be a ghost from the past.

"That part 'a my life's supposed to be dead," said Spot suddenly, on the edge of sounding whiney. "And things are already bad. Now he's gotta show up again and make ev'rythin' worse."

"Well, you can't exactly pretend he's not there," advised David. "The past is still important no matter how much you try to forget about it. It's still there, and you're not the type to ignore it, Spot."

Spot gripped his forehead in his hand. It was a pathetic scene: five young adults coming down from their buzzes on a night that wasn't supposed to be remembered the next morning. One sat on a crate box, bruised with dried blood on his face and relocated fingers covering it all.

"This is gonna be tough," mumbled Spot. "There ain't no rules fer this one. Back then, we had rules and meetings…"

This was pure streets.

"I'm goin' home," he added. "I need to think this one out on my own…"

"Spot, we gotta talk about this," interrupted Jack. "Ya know, ya're not the only one affected by this. Harlem happened to me, too. I might not've suffered as much as you guys did, but it still happened. Ya can't forget about that eitha."

"I _know_, Jack. Just lemme sleep on it, a'right? Jesus…"

Spot knew, as he trudged up his apartment steps, that his homecoming at three o'clock in the morning would be awkward and unexpected. Gabby would probably be asleep, as well as Noah, and in no way would she be happy with it. He summoned up the patience and latched his key into the lock. Ever so gently, he turned the doorknob and crept inside.

The light was on in the living room and Gabby was still awake. She held Noah against her chest, who seemed to be asleep. The two looked at each other for a moment. Spot pressed his lips together, unsure of what to say. Gabby gave him a weird look upon his entrance, but something happened that Spot did not expect; she gasped, not with fright, but with concern. She carefully set Noah down onto the chair and rushed over to the doorway.

"What on earth happened, Spot?" Gabby's voice couldn't help but be worrisome. Her hand flew to her heart as she stood in front of him, looking over his injuries. She led him over to the kitchen table and rushed to get a bowl of water and wash cloth.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

Indifferently, Spot hung his head. Gabby sat down next to him and dipped the wash cloth into the bowl. Carefully, as she held the other side of Spot's face, she wiped away the blood from his cheekbone. A short, oddly shaped cut bled mildly from his skin.

"Things got outta hand," said Spot softly. He looked up at Gabby. Her head shook lightly as her eyebrows knitted faintly. Her face still looked concerned, but also now was a look of shame and disappointment.

"Spot, you're not in Brooklyn anymore…" said Gabby simply and quietly, though her voice had command in it. She wiped his forehead and eyes gently. "I know you like going out, but you need to ease up. You can't come home like this."

Spot looked up at her glaringly. Who did she think she was, ordering Spot Conlon around like this? She finished cleaning him up and looked down at his black and blue hand. With little feeling, she placed her soft palm over his knuckles.

"Please…" said Gabby silently. "You have a child. What's gonna happen if one of these nights you don't come back?"

After a moment, Spot's hand escaped Gabby's light hold, which was starting to feel like a claw to him. He got up and walked away, grazing her side and giving her goosebumps.

"I know what I'm doin', Gabby."

Much later that night as Spot tossed around in his sleep, he returned to the broken city that he always visited. Again he stood in the doorway of the decrepit building that had been mysteriously haunting him for weeks. He looked down and noticed both of his hands were broken completely; they were black and dead and useless. His clothes were tattered to rags and his feet were bare of any footwear. He reached up to his face and felt his nose broken, his lip busted, and his eye swollen completely shut.

All of a sudden, there was the same hand that always grabbed him from behind. A misty fog settled in over the building as Spot hesitated to turn. An eerie, cold mist crept gradually into the building, entering his lungs and turning them to ice. It swarmed all around the room, consuming him and leaving him in a cloud of fear. After a second, he quickly spun and came face to face with what had been plaguing his dreams for such time.

He needed to go back to Brooklyn.


	9. Light it Up

Hey, at least he tried. You can't say he didn't try. If Spot had left the apartment without letting Gabby know, he was pretty sure she would have packed up and moved out when he got home. He didn't want that. He just didn't want to tell Gabby where he was going since he probably would have had to deal with her disagreement.

_Will be home later. Don't worry._

And that was all he put on his note. He didn't even sign it. Gabby just couldn't stand in the way of some things, and this was one of them. Brooklyn was Spot's domain and nobody was going to stop him from returning home.

The walk there was a little unnerving. The weather was overcast with such a white-gray sky that it was impossible to differentiate all the clouds. The gloominess enhanced the November temperatures with a sharp breeze. As Spot trudged over the Brooklyn bridge a sadness swept over him.

As he neared the lodging house, he noticed his old, familiar selling place. He never let anyone else touch it and everybody knew not to do so. Now, a small newsie who could have been no more than ten years old stood in his place. One of his arms held a bundle of almost twenty papers, and the other held up today's paper as he shouted out the headlines.

"I'll take one 'a those," said Spot at the newsie's side. He dug deep and found a nickel.

"Dat'll be a penny, sir," the boy said, handing him the paper. His accent was thick and his voice tiny, but he still carried himself with the demeanor of a giant. Under any other circumstances, Spot would have smiled.

"Thanks. Keep the change."

As Spot began to take the paper, the newsie still had a grip on it. He looked up at Spot with big, brown eyes. Both hesitated for a moment.

"Ya're him, ain'tcha?" said the boy in an awestruck way. "Spot Conlon?"

A corner of Spot's lips turned upward at the recognition. He bent down so that he crouched in front of the boy. "What's yer name?"

The boy sniffed and straightened up his stance with gusto. "I'm Spits. Dis is my sellin' place."

"Damn good place it is, too," responded Spot in a proud tone. "I bet ya get all those businessmen ovah there from the bank, don'tcha? And the men ovah at the government building right there?" He pointed in the direction from memory at the hottest buildings to sell to.

"Uh-huh." Spits sniffed again, apparently suffering from a cold. "I got tha best place 'a the whole lodgin' house. I even _fought_ my way heah." Sniff. "Three times."

Spot couldn't help but smile at Spits. He was like a miniature him. "You do that place proud, a'right Spits? Take care 'a ya'self."

Spits nodded. "Yes, sir."

Spot walked away and swore he could make out a small ray of sunlight on that little boy. But he looked up and saw only the same gray sky. It must have only been in his mind. And he couldn't understand why, but the image of his boy Noah popped into his mind.

The lodging house, as expected, was fairly empty. He took a seat on the porch, bundling up his coat and shoving his hands in his pockets. It was freezing, just like it always was in his dream. Almost an hour passed while Spot watched the passersby.

Soon, boys began to trickle back into the house. A few he recognized and exchanged greetings, some of them he could tell were new and most of which stared at Spot for a brief moment, recalling that he was the former ruler of Brooklyn. It was a pretty good feeling.

After most of the boys had filed in, Bolt made his way up the steps. Spot stood and in doing so, felt the same hurtful pain he felt the last time he had seen Bolt. The colder weather had brought out the worst of his old friend's appearance.

"Hey," was all Spot could say as his greeting.

Bolt looked up and stretched a smile onto his bony cheeks. "How ya doin', Spot?" The tone in his voice seemed like the question had taken so much from him, like it had him to the point of exhaustion. He, too, sniffled a couple times.

"Doin' a'right. I actually gotta talk to ya…It's kinda important."

"Ho-ly shit, Spot Conlon's back in Brooklyn," came a familiar voice from behind Bolt. Thompson, another close friend back in those days, appeared on the steps.

It _had_ to have been the cold weather, but Spot could have sworn they never looked that bad when this time rolled around; Thompson was nearly as frail as Bolt was, with sunken cheeks and pale skin.

"Heya, Thompson," responded Spot with a spit-shake after he had gotten over the appearance. "You guys got a while?"

Bolt shakily lit up a cigarette in the lobby of the lodging house. The three boys sat on the steps and listened to Spot's recollection of his encounter with Jumper, who now went by the name "Johnny Salvini." Thompson lowered his head and held the back of his neck as they took in the information.

"That little dip-shit ain't no more 'Talian than I am rich," said Thompson with anger slowly rising up within him. "What the hell does he want?"

"Closure," answered Bolt, quietly. The other boys looked at him and nodded after much deliberation. Bolt hungrily sucked on his cigarette as he went on, "He's probably still pissed off and thinks he can get away with it 'cause you ain't a newsie no more, Spot. Now he thinks he's invincible er somethin'."

Spot rested his elbows atop his knees and pulled at the roots of his hair. "Have ya guys gotten any grief from Harlem at least? I mean, I know about Queens an' all, but what about Harlem?"

"Dese days it's hard to tell who's from Harlem and who's from Queens when they wander in here," replied Thompson, "fer all we know we could have boys from Jersey or Boston in Brooklyn…"

Spot sighed heavily and got up. He walked around the small room, a helpless and angered look about his face. After brief moments, he asked openly with slight passion, "Why do ya let 'em do whatever they want now? Let 'em walk all ovah our turf? Dammit, did I not teach ya anything? As much as ya wanna deny it, this thing'll get bigger. It got bigger the moment Jumper walked into that club in Manhattan."

Thompson and Bolt hung their heads low, faces to the ground and making uncomfortable movements as if to adjust their seats. The scene made Spot pissed off, more so than he had ever imagined. This was his Brooklyn, his former territory and these boys were careless and apathetic about it. Their heads hung in shame.It all made Spot want to scream.

"You even listenin' to me?" shouted Spot, and he kicked over a crate of papers on the floor. "They've got you in the palms of their hands and you ain't doin' a damn thing to stop it! Look at you, Bolt, you'se just sittin' there all quiet as can be! I ain't nevah known ya to be the quiet one in all my life. Wouldja realize what's goin' on heah? Brooklyn is crumbling!"

"No one asked fer you to come back heah, Spot!" burst out Bolt suddenly, to Spot's surprise. "Ya talk to me once in a couple 'a months and think you'se can come back heah and things would be the same? Yeah, I know things aren't as perfect as they were when you was heah, a'right? But when you'se left you _swore_ you was makin' the right choice with me. Don't doubt me just 'cause you ain't in charge anymore!"

"Look, Bolt, I ain't sorry fer comin' back heah…"

Damn straight. Spot Conlon never apologizes for anything.

"But look at ya'self, Bolt. You ain't gonna last long if somethin' starts with these guys. Trust me. You'se gonna need all the help you can get."

"So, what, you gonna fly back heah and come to my rescue soon as somethin' happens, Spot?" replied Bolt in a biting, sarcastic tone.

Bolt's response stuck a place in Spot's stomach hard. He looked at Bolt for a long time, trying to figure out if this was really the boy he had grown up with on the streets. When Spot had gotten into his first fight when he was five, it was Bolt who had had his back; if Bolt wouldn't have been there, the older boy would have surely killed Spot. So, he couldn't quite figure out how to answer Bolt's question.

"If that's how it is, Bolt," started Spot quietly, "ya know where to find me."

He stood before his friends for a moment and walked himself out.

* * *

It was the early afternoon when Spot returned back to Manhattan. He stood in front of his apartment building and looked up at the several floors and windows. A flurry of snowflakes fell to the ground from the undisputed gray sky, and one landed on his eyelash. He blinked it away and looked at the wet, cold ground. He couldn't bring himself to go up to his apartment.

Instead, he turned to his left and walked himself a few blocks, turning down two streets and cutting through one alley. A part of him felt guilty for memorizing exactly where it stood, but he couldn't help it. He walked through the entrance and up four flights of stairs. He knocked a few times on apartment 6D.

"Long time, no see, Conlon," greeted Kat in a dazed sort of way.

"Yeah. I ain't botherin' ya, am I?"

Kat leaned her head against the door and pulled it open further with a dreamy smile on her tranquil face. Spot stepped in and smelled that Kat had been smoking _something_ to make her seem so drifted. Opium, marijuana, whatever, Spot wanted it. He took a seat on Kat's ratty, uncomfortable sofa as she joined him.

"You look tense, baby," she cooed softly in a slur. She sat next to him and removed his hat, running her fingers through his damp hair. Her head rested heavily onto his shoulder as he stared directly ahead of him, emotionless.

"Yeah" was all he mumbled in response. His eyes eventually wandered down to his side as he looked at Kat. Her body was light on his and her corset was tight enough to tease him uncontrollably. Looking away reluctantly, his eyes sought out the joint burning carelessly on the table next to him. Hungrily, he reached out and sucked in the relaxing, soft grass.

"Juss got that yesterday," informed Kat tiredly. She sat up and laid across his lap to help herself to the hefty stash.

The combination of an increasing high along with Kat willingly lying across his legs made for a somehow better afternoon, in a twisted sort of way.

They sat on the couch, silent, lighting up countless papers and burning down the day. He kissed her. Once he started, he couldn't stop. He laid on top of her and undressed her and she took off his clothes and did not object to any of it. As soon as they were done, Spot would light up, let the smoke consume him, and do it to her again.

It had been like stepping through a time portal or entering a different world entirely, because the next day he didn't go to work. He had slept through the morning and finally woke up at noon. On the floor, naked as sin and scantily covered by a thin blanket, Kat snoozed calmly. Without saying goodbye, he put on his clothes and headed downstairs.

But as soon as Spot stepped back to 1901, reality smacked him coldly in the face. As he made his way south, even in the lightly falling snow, there were billows of black smoke coming from the other side of his Brooklyn Bridge. Immediately a sickened feeling washed over him and he rushed over for a better view. Clouds of gray and black rose up into the sky not far from the bridge and he seemed to be the only one to see it.

_Relax_, he told himself over his wildly beating heart. _It could just be a factory or something…_

Spot quickly bought a paper from the nearest newsboy and frantically flipped through its sections, searching for anything that read "fire" or "blaze." It was a small, quick brief in the bottom corner of the third page. No bold headlines or front-page news, but it was still there, screaming at him:

"_Fire at Brooklyn newsboy lodging house kills six…"_


	10. Love in a Time of Opposition

It wasn't fast enough. As Spot drove his legs against the cold ground he damned himself for not being fast enough. It didn't matter that the paper said "six dead." To him, the entire lodging house was deceased. This was his fault, he felt. This was his doing. He wasn't of Brooklyn anymore.

When Spot reached the lodging house, his heart stopped. Among the streets of passersby and marketers and women and children, a decrepit building barely stood tall and crumbling in front of him. The solitary outlining of its brick held up the blackened wood and beams that scarcely stood up. Ashes littered the streets in front of it amongst the snowflakes, making it difficult to differentiate the two. Firemen still continued inspecting the house; the blaze had spread to nearby buildings as well.

Spot stood doubled over, his numb hands gripping his trembling knees. He panted, out of breath and in absolute horror, even for a kid who knew a life of rebellion and street-fighting all his life. His entire childhood had erupted up in flames in one night.

After moments of shock, he noticed something that caught his eye once a divide in the crowd had taken place. Bolt stood directly in front of the building on the other side of the wide street. His clothes were tattered with smoke marks and rips. His hands stuffed deep into the scanty pockets of his trousers, a blank and dead expression on his darkened face. Spot walked toward him, his heart beating wildly.

He gripped Bolt's shoulder from his side and stared at his profile. The only thing that moved in Bolt's being was his jaw that shuddered only from the cold temperatures. His lips were blue and thin. He looked worse than dead, for he was alive.

"You only knew two 'a them," said Bolt quietly after a moment.

Spot gulped and stared hard at his friend.

"Johnny and Noodle. The rest were new. They were young." Bolt's voice was just as emotionless as the rest of him. His eyes continued to stare, unblinking, at the ruin ahead of them. "They were so _young_, Spot. And I didn't fall back for 'em."

Spot balled his hands into fists and squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as possible. In his mind he saw Spits, the boy on the street corner he had met yesterday. Johnny and Noodle. They were young. A rage that Spot never knew he could have erupted inside of him and he did not know what to do with it. He couldn't hit something; there wasn't anything to hit. He couldn't scream or yell; there wasn't anything to say.

"How'd it happen, Bolt?" asked Spot quietly. Suddenly, he grabbed his shoulders and faced him with force. "Look at me, Bolt! Tell me what happened!"

"It was around midnight or so…we was sleepin' and all I remember is someone yellin' there was a fire…ev'ryone just got out as best they could…but there was all this pushin' and shovin', tryin' to get out all the same spots. The fire blocked the windows and we couldn't use 'em…we all tried gettin' down the staircase."

Bolt looked down, showing more sign of movement.

"I shoulda been the last one outta there, Spot. I wasn't. I saved my skin just barely, and the worst part is that I looked back and saw the fire catch on to somethin'…I didn't do anything, Spot. Six of 'em died. That's six too many."

And the two stood there, former brothers, staring at the place they had both called home at a time. No words were spoken, no conversation exchanged. The fire had done enough speaking for itself. Spot asked him how it had started.

"They think it was a candle. I know bettah than that. I know it wasn't a goddamn candle. It was Harlem and Queens. I know it. I ain't an idiot. Don't take a dumbass to strike a match."

* * *

Spot and Bolt walked across the Brooklyn Bridge together, still saying very little. The other newsies from Brooklyn had already gone to Manhattan to stay at the lodging house there. Spot had offered his home to Bolt for a few nights as he realized how crowded it would be over there. Bolt refused, saying he did not want to intervene with him and Gabby.

A thought struck Spot, almost as badly as when he saw the fire. Gabby. He barely knew her anymore, much like he didn't know Bolt. He slept with another girl yesterday. Several times in one afternoon. A vicious fear ran through Spot's body that something would happen to Gabby as well. If something this bad could happen to Bolt, he didn't want to think of what would happen to her. He needed to get to her.

Bold had already told him he did not want to discuss any plans for attack on Harlem or Queens for the day. They would meet up again tomorrow with the leaders of Manhattan, and maybe even Jack and Racetrack. He needed to rest on it, to take it all in. Spot didn't object.

Spot Conlon was about to do the bravest thing he had ever done: walk up to his apartment and face the girl he considered the absolute love of his life, even though he hadn't felt it in a long time. He hadn't touched her, held her, kissed her…in an eternity.

He walked through the doorframe of his home and stood there, hoping to hear Gabby's voice or Noah's laughter. In a perfect world, he would be coming home from work with a rose in his hand for his wife; Gabby would be in the middle of cooking dinner and Noah would be playing on the couch, smiling and giggling. But it was reality, and Spot came home to an empty apartment.

He took a seat in the middle of the living room floor, staring at the door in a sort of trance. He thought that if he imagined it hard enough, Gabby would magically appear with that beautiful smile across her fair cheeks, a lock of her brown hair falling carelessly across her forehead. But it didn't happen. Spot spent the entire afternoon and evening down on that floor. He lay down, eyes still on the doorframe, until he eventually drifted off into a sleep.

It wasn't until the middle of the night did Spot wake up. The clock on the wall told him it was eleven, and the entire apartment was dark, save for the full moon providing a shockingly bright light that spilled onto a selected section of the home. Spot sat up and rubbed his eyes. He didn't see Gabby next to him or feel her sleeping next to him. But he did hear something.

Across the room, their bedroom door was open just a crack. There was movement about, but nothing threatening or ominous. Spot walked himself over to their bedroom and saw Gabby sleeping deeply on their bed. On the space where Spot normally slept, was Noah.

The seven month-old infant sat upright on the sheets close to Gabby. His mouth was open as he stared at Spot. Spot stared back. The two sets of sapphire blue eyes watched one another expectantly for a couple of long moments.

"You don't look so bad," said Spot to his son. Why would Gabby complain about him that much?

Noah continued to stare back at him. Spot walked over and, hesitating briefly, picked up Noah Conlon. He held him in his arms, slightly nervous (though he would never admit to that). Spot carried him in one arm and closed the door behind him quietly as they exited the bedroom.

Spot lit a candle on the kitchen table, a very small flame to be sure, and sat on a chair that faced at an angle the window. He held Noah close to his chest as he felt around Spot's hair and nose and cheeks. A smile, not even close to being annoyed, graced his face as he played with Noah's teeny, little fingers.

Occasionally the infant's curious eyes would wander off out the window at the spectacular moon. Spot picked him up ever so gently and placed him on the end table that hugged the wall. He rubbed Noah's soft, brown hair that just covered his head. Spot was unsure of where it was coming from, this fascination with a baby.

There was something about the look in Noah's big, beautiful eyes that gave Spot peace. It was the first time he had ever _really_ paid full attention to his son. It was calming, almost inspiring; Noah was so transfixed on that moon that it brought a sense of tranquility and wonder to the eighteen-year-old father. He crossed his arms on the table surface and rested his chin on them; he just couldn't take his eyes off his baby boy. That was _his_. Not in possession or excuse against Gabby in a fight, but Spot helped create this tiny human being. One day Noah was going to grow up and would hopefully go to school; have a best friend or two, like he had Bolt; meet a girl and they would get married, out of love, of course. Then they would have their own baby, and Gabby and Spot would look at each other and say, "Yeah…we actually got it right."

Something unexpected then happened: a tear came to Spot's eye. It crept up on him while he gazed at Noah, almost alarming him. But the peace Noah gave him was so gentle that Spot simply wiped it away and smiled.

A long time later, when Noah was showing signs of sleepiness, Spot picked him up and rested him on his chest. The two Conlon's sat back in the chair and relaxed. Spot rubbed his hand gently and slowly on Noah's back, and soon, he drifted off to sleep as well.

* * *

Very early the next morning, as the red sun was just barely over the horizon, Gabby opened her tired eyes and sat up abruptly, seeing that Noah wasn't there. A sickened feeling in the pit of her stomach jolted her awake as she ran to his crib. She rushed to the door and looked around.

She had to rub her eyes a few times to make sure she was seeing correctly; Noah and Spot were fast asleep on the chair in the corner. It was the man she loved. And for the first time, in a long time, Gabby felt that everything was going to be okay.


	11. Righting the Wrong

Just before she awoke for the second time that morning, Gabby had a feeling of rest come over her. She hadn't felt quite satisfied after a night's sleep in a long time, too long to remember. The faint light spilled onto the empty space next to her on the bed as she stared bleary-eyed at it.

"Morning, Gabs."

Gabby rolled over and saw Spot sitting next to the bed, his hand cupped over the other resting underneath his chin. It was difficult to determine what was on his mind; his face was placid and his lips formed a line that just barely curved at the corners. It looked as though he had been rested as well, though pondering things over.

"Hi."

"How'd ya sleep?" asked Spot casually, as if this happened every morning.

"Fine." Gabby eyed him somewhat skeptically; seeing Spot and Noah was satisfying and comforting, but there was still a past that hurt think about.

"Why aren't you at work?" inquired Gabby.

"Uhm," Spot cleared his throat, "long story. Got time to talk?"

Gabby sat up and looked to Noah's crib; he was sleeping soundly, his chest moving up and down steadily.

"I already changed him," informed Spot; Gabby looked at him, bewildered and shocked. He continued, reading her mind, "It was the most disgustin' thing I evah saw."

An inescapable laugh issued from Gabby's mouth. She sighed heavily and brushed the hair out of her face. She sat up and folded her fingers between each other and rested them on her lap. Spot adjusted in his seat, as though nervous or anxious.

"What'd you want to talk about?" Gabby raised an eyebrow subtly, preparing to hear the best excuse ever known to man.

"I know we haven't really seen each other lately. I've been dealin' with a lot of stuff outside this."

"Like what, what have you been dealing with?" interrupted Gabby.

"I don't wanna talk about that right now. I wanna talk about how somethin' happened to me yesterday and it brought how we can't even be in the same room with each other anymore to my attention. I miss ya, Gabby. And I did so much that I ain't proud of, but I wanna be able to give it another chance…if not fer us, then fer Noah."

Gabby eyed him as he just mentioned their baby. The image of the two sleeping on the chair this morning popped up into her mind again. So he wanted to work on their relationship, huh? She sighed in a deep thought; Spot changing Noah _was_ a start. Maybe Spot was being sincere. But there was something else lingering in her mind…

"Can you just tell me that it's all over with her?" asked Gabby. "I just want to hear you say it was a mistake and maybe…_maybe_ I can find it in me somewhere…to trust you again." That night, the night that Spot had come home with lipstick on his face and neck, smelling of lavender perfume, it was plaguing her.

Spot's tense face loosened as though he had met his match. He had known that she as going to ask him about that. He took her hand and held it tightly in his own. Finding it particularly difficult to find the words, Spot held her hand to his cheek; his voice breaking faintly, he muttered, "I slept with her."

Gabby closed her eyes and lost her grip with his hand. She turned away and got out of bed, suppressing the lump growing in her throat and making her way to the door.

"Gabby…" Spot jumped up quickly and met her at the door. He grabbed her shoulders firmly and stood in front of her, though all she did was turn her face away.

"Gabby, this is the hardest thing I evah had to do. I know, I screwed up real bad, but I know what I done. Please just trust me when I say I wish I could take it back and I want us to be happy again…"

All Gabby could think was how she stood in this position a long while ago, pleading for his forgiveness. She had betrayed his trust the same way he had just done to her when she coincided with Tyce Nichols of Queens. She looked up at him with misty eyes and felt a connection for the first time in months.

"Well then…" started Gabby, "I guess this means we're even."

* * *

It turned a fair amount of heads when they saw it: Spot had brought Noah to the Manhattan lodging house to talk with Bolt and Thompson. He couldn't say he didn't expect it, but likewise he voluntarily took Noah off Gabby's hands for the afternoon. Not to mention he showed off his baby boy with pride.

"Okay, so where do we stand now that this happened?" asked Spot casually, getting back into his old self. He sat down at a table with Bolt, Thompson, and a few other newsies. The boys first looked at Noah with confusion, opened their mouths to comment, but decided it was best not to say a word about it.

"Well, uh," Thompson shook his head a little and continued, "we juss got word dat one 'a the boys saw someone run up and down the fire escape right before the fire happened. So we pretty much _confirmed_ that it wadn't a candle that started it."

Spot nodded, transfixed in the story, unaware and used to Noah chewing on his fingers with his toothless mouth. He visualized the scene in his mind and asked further, "Did he say who he thought it was?"

"No, juss that he didn't recognize him."

"Which means it's likely the kid was from Harlem or Queens. All right, we got that part down, what're ya plannin' to do about it?"

"Already started without me?" said a voice from across the room. "I mean, I'm offended, to be perfectly honest."

Jack Kelly entered the room with a comfortable smile on his face. To his side was Racetrack, smoking a cigar and looking around the room in reminiscence. Ah, memories. They greeted the others and took a seat with them, choosing not to comment either on the smallest addition of the meeting.

"I'm thinkin' we should go in there and just blow their brains out, each an' ev'ry one 'a them," said Bolt with an unexpected tone of vengeful excitement. "I sat back too long to let 'em get away with this one."

Spot pressed his lips together to hold back his smile, finally glad to see the old Bolt back. He took his finger out of Noah's mouth, a bit grossed out by the amount of spit on it, and adjusted his seat.

"First, I wanna talk to Jumper," said Spot. "Er Johnny, whatever the hell he's callin' hisself these days…I can handle it, I don't care what anyone else says. I wanna talk to 'im in person and ask 'im about this. He was always easy to crack, er at least easier to read than some."

"What good's that gonna do, Conlon?" asked Racetrack, unconvinced. "You'll probably just wind up with a black eye er somethin'."

"We ain't entirely sure this is the work 'a Harlem, though, Race. I just wanna talk to 'im and see what he's got to say."

* * *

The following day, Spot and Racetrack entered O'Reilly's Social Club in the mid afternoon. Spot had completely avoided the fact that he was still employed at Bedford Furniture, though by now he was probably fired. Sometimes things happen, though, that require a little more attention.

"He's been comin' heah fer the past week," informed Race. "So I'm thinkin' he'll be heah today. Sure ya wanna do this, Conlon?"

Spot watched the fight in the center of the room escalate with an exciting punch. He turned to Race and answered, "Oh yeah. Real sure."

Race sat at his usual table for work. On the second floor he could oversee all the fights and take all the money for the bets. Shane O'Reilly made his way up to the table where Race sorted out his money and Spot sat watching the entrance like a hawk.

"How we doin' today, Higgins?" inquired O'Reilly. "Not too many men here today, I'm worried. My drink supplier just upped the prices on me…"

"Ah, don' worry," replied Race, licking his fingers to separate the bills, "it's early."

O'Reilly took a seat and rubbed his red, sweaty face. He turned to Spot, recognizing him with little difficulty. He said to him, "Hey, you're that kid not too long ago that fought here. The Irish, am I right?"

Spot closed his eyes for a second and replied, without turning his direction, "Yeah."

"Man, that was a terrible night…Neither 'a you guys won, did they?"

Spot remained silent. In Brooklyn, nobody dared speak of his mistakes, if he ever made them. Now this guy was throwing them in his face without any regard. He felt his jaw clench slightly and his fists tighten. Suddenly, the door to the entrance swung open and Jumper stepped through, accompanied by another boy.

Spot stood up and sternly made his way towards him. He worked his way through the small crowd of men and followed where Jumper was headed. He walked up behind him while he was seated at the bar and grabbed the weapon he had in his coat pocket. Standing close behind him, Spot pressed his covered weapon into the small of Jumper's back.

"Don't even _think_ about movin'," threatened Spot in a low, vicious voice.

Jumper froze with his hand on his beer mug, shaking for fear of something flying out of Conlon's pocket and lodging into his back.

"We gotta talk. Go to the back room behind the bar and don't bring yer lil' bitch boy with ya."

"Conlon."

Spot shoved the weapon harder into his back firmly. "I ain't gonna hurt ya unless you'se just go to the back room. You an' me got a _lot_ to catch up on."

Obediently and with a trickle of sweat coming down his neck, Jumper rose from his barstool and straightened himself out. He notified the other boy that he would be in the restroom, while Spot started off towards the room. Jumper swallowed and adjusted his jacket as if to encourage himself.

As Spot shut the door behind him, he loosened his grip on his trusty, harmless slingshot in his pocket. He smirked in spite of himself, knowing the trick had worked. Now the catch was getting the enemy to listen without any other protection.


	12. The Enemy

The room was deadly silent save for the wind tapping a dead tree branch against the window repeatedly. Spot closed the door and the two sat in the small den used for employee meetings (or for O'Reilly's favorite customers spending time with one of his showgirls). They sat across from each other, staring for a moment, on either side of the coffee table.

"Enjoyin' yer stay in Manhattan, Jumper?" asked Spot casually.

Jumper's face was complacent; had he shown any sign of emotion he would have been less intimidating. His dark eyes blinked as he flicked away a chunk of black hair from his pale forehead. He cleared his throat and answered, "It's all right, could be bettah. How 'bout ya'self? Makin' any trips back ta Brooklyn at all? Heard ya had a lil' visit not long ago."

"Funny, I heard the same thing 'bout you."

Slightly, Jumper cocked his head to the side as if surprised. He nonchalantly took out a Cuban from his suit coat and even offered one to Spot, who accepted after a skeptical stare. Jumper looked better-off than Spot; his matching suit was clean and indicated that more than mere coins nested in his pockets. Silently they lit the cigars and remained quiet for a few moments. Had it been a year ago and they were still newsboys, someone would be dead.

"Look Conlon, I know what yer thinkin'."

"Do ya, now?" Spot felt a hint of an Irish accent come out of his mouth while he savored the flavor of the cigar. "What's that…'Johnny,' is it?"

Jumper exhaled a cloud of smoke through his nostrils and twirled the Cuban about his forefinger and middle. He paused, looking out into space for a brief moment. After another inhalation he responded, "I didn't start no fire."

Spot sat back into his chair deeper; his eyes narrowed in on Jumper. He was not exactly as he had anticipated, because he couldn't tell if Jumper was actually telling the truth or if he was just lying right through his teeth. It was strange, for it was as if the streets had grown him a different persona; as if he actually _was_ Johnny Salvini now, the young Italian, not Jumper the ex-newsboy leader of Harlem. All Spot had come to be familiar with was starting to slowly fade away.

"How'd ya hear 'bout the fire?" inquired Spot, unsure of what to say.

"Word travels, Conlon. And 'a course, I read the papah still. Readin' the newspapah's important fer me now." He sighed contentedly, like this was just a way of his precious time.

He was beginning to drive Spot crazy. Why wasn't he sitting there cursing him in a whiney sort of way, telling him that Brooklyn was no good? That Harlem could take him out any day of the week? Why weren't they part of that system anymore? Had they still been their old selves, this would have been over with a simple pull of the trigger. But the present was different; it was harder to take the enemy out of the picture.

Spot set his cigar into the ashtray on the table. He leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees. Looking up at Jumper he asked, "Why're ya doin' this?"

The Italian stopped twirling around his cigar and stood up. He buttoned his suit jacket formally and straightened his tie.

"You was always a threat to me, Conlon. You an' yer Brooklyn boys. But I just can't have that in my life anymore."

Jumper walked toward the door and paused with his hand on the doorknob. He turned his head back to Spot, who was staring blankly at his cigar, and reiterated, "Like I said, it wasn't _me_ who started that fire."

* * *

Irish luck seemed to be on his side; Bedford had let Spot come back to work for him. It was nearing the holiday season, a busy time for the store, and Bedford needed the extra help. He had only given the boy one chance to earn back his job, and after shamefully begging and pleading, Spot had gotten it.

Spot drove a nail into the splintered piece of wood that was the start of a rocking chair. He and Benny worked diligently without much side conversation; but Spot's head was going a mile a minute thinking about the talk he had recently had with Jumper. The scene in his head kept rubbing him the wrong way. Why was "Johnny Salvini" so calm and smug? A certain kind of confidence elicited from that boy, which surprised Spot. But where was Jumper's easiness coming from?

"So, I hate to bring this up," spoke Benny suddenly as he sanded a desk, "but I've been hearin' your name mentioned in my building, Spot."

The statement made Spot stop working. He looked up at Benny with narrowed eyes and a questioning look.

"Or at least I think so," continued Benny. "I mean, I could be wrong. You didn't happen to run into, uh…Christ, what's his name…that Italian wop…Salvini?"

An uneasy feeling started to settle in Spot's stomach. He knew Benny lived in a dominantly Italian part of Manhattan; why, he didn't know, because everyday Benny was taking his life into his own hands. Spot picked up his hammer slowly and responded, "What about Salvini?"

Benny seemed to realize it was a touchy subject and began to sand quicker and fumble a little more. "Oh, uh, I just heard he goes to O'Reilly's quite a bit. That, uh, ya know, social club..."

"What've you heard, Benny?"

"Nothin', it's nothin'…Pass me those nails, would ya?" Benny moved somewhat shakily and tried to avoid eye contact with Spot. He ignored his question and moved quickly to retrieve the nails himself.

"Benny, what the hell's goin' on?" demanded Spot. "It's been a strange couple 'a days, I really don't need this right now, a'right?"

After brief hesitation, Benny quickly glanced around and moved closer to Spot. His green eyes were serious and almost grim. His voice dropped low.

"Look, Spot…I heard you an' this Salvini kid had a little run-in at O'Reilly's a while back. I'm not judgin', I'm just tellin' you that I've been hearin' some things about this guy. Johnny Salvini, you know who I'm talkin' about?"

Spot nodded hastily and continued to listen with anxiety.

"You don't wanna get mixed with this guy too much, Spot. He knows his people, let me put it that way. Trust me on that, from one Mick to the next. Don't cross paths with Salvini any more than you may have."

The room was that deadly quiet again. Spot felt his stomach plummet as Benny resumed his work on the desk. Without thinking, Spot did the same. It wasn't until he barely missed nailing his finger that he realized how badly his hands were shaking. He felt his forehead bead with sweat and he dropped his tools to rush for some fresh air.

While he caught his breath behind the store, he couldn't help but feel that that run-in with Jumper might be much deeper than he could imagine. So much for the luck of the Irish.


	13. The Sound of Silence

As Gabby finished up the soup for Sunday's dinner, she realized how different the silence was; usually, Spot was always quiet around her as if he had something to hide. But something in his eyes suggested a certain anxiety had been plaguing him. He sat in the living room staring out the window blankly with Noah sitting on his lap.His fingers curled over his chin in deep thought and he rubbed the infant's back rhythmically. Noah's eyes searched the room, but inevitably always coming back to Spot.

Gabby called them to the table. She kept her concerned eyes on Spot as he carefully set Noah into his chair. With a very brief hesitation, Gabby placed her hand on Spot's arm and eyed him with sensitivity. Spot looked first at her hand and then up into her eyes; he hadn't seen those eyes in a long time.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" asked Gabby in a knowing tone.

A quick flood of memories washed over Spot; when he had first met Gabby they had immediately sparked conversation. Their relationship was primarily built on communication, for he had found a sort of connection with her that he had never had before with anyone else. He felt he needed to be honest, though, for a change.

"Not yet," he answered.

Gabby nodded in acceptance and added, "Well, if you ever need me…"

"I know." Spot smiled.

The quiet lingered in the room for a considerable amount of time. The only noises came from Noah, who occasionally rejected his dinner. Spot slurped down the contents of his soup and paused in thought; if he talked to Gabby before things might get worse, she would be prepared. He decided to give her the facts. All of them.

"Actually, Gabby," started Spot slowly, "there's been somethin' on my mind that we need to talk about."

Gabby leaned her elbows on the table and listened carefully. Her eyes locked with his and narrowed within their gaze.

"Well, I don't really know how to start sayin' this, so I'm just gonna lay it out there."

Then, just before Spot could go any further, a hard round of knocks came to the door. Gabby stood to answer it casually, but instinct took over Spot and he grabbed her arm tightly. She looked at him, confused, and he sat her back down firmly as he got up.

"What's wrong?" She had come to know when something had alarmed Spot, and unsettling feeling rested in her stomach. It told her that something was noticeably wrong.

Without answering her question, he told her to take Noah and get into the bedroom.

"Spot, tell me what's going on!"

He ushered them into their bedroom and closed the door amidst Gabby's protests. As the knocks continued steadily in the hallway, Spot's heart pumped faster as he came face to face with the wooden, splintered doorway. After hesitating, Spot twisted the knob and opened just a crack. He was first met with the distinct smell of a cigar and he felt his taut muscles relax.

"My god, Race, what the hell're ya doin' heah?"

"Spot, we gotta talk." Racetrack's voice was rushed and hurried, his face a pallet of urgency and concern.

"I mean, I thought it was someone like Salvini er somethin'…"

"Spot. Seriously," urged Race. "I really gotta talk ta you."

Quieted, Spot nodded and let him in. Race hesitated, wondering if it would be all right that Gabby was home, as well as Noah. Spot reassured him that it was fine, saying that he was in fact going to tell Gabby what he knew anyway. Gabby opened the door swiftly with an upset look on her face; once she read Race's and Spot's expressions, however, her soft-eyed, mouth slightly open look took her face.

Spot and Race sat down in the kitchen with the half-eaten meal on the table. Gabby balanced Noah on her lap, attempting to feed him. A part of her was confused, for she knew how fussy babies could get, but Noah almost never acted this way. They had had this food before without many complaints, but during the entire dinner the infant had only gotten down two spoonfuls.

"Is this what you were gonna talk to me about, Spot?" asked Gabby, motioning her head toward Race.

"Oh, I'm not sure…" Spot turned to Race, "is this about Salvini?"

"Yeah."

"Then you might wanna listen up, Gabby," said Spot after a pause. "I was gonna tell you a little bit ago…but I ran into an 'old friend' a while back. It's Jumper."

Gabby nearly lost balance of Noah upon the mention his name. Her face seemed to go white and her muscles jumped. Spot placed his hand on her arm to calm her down, saying, "don't worry. I talked to 'im. I don't think he's gonna be botherin' us ."

"Eh, actually Spot, that's what I wanted to talk to ya about," chimed in Race. He glanced at Gabby and Noah and leaned in closer to him, "ya sure you don't wanna step out into the hall er somethin'? I mean the kid's right there…"

"No," protested Gabby suddenly. "I want to hear this."

Gabby's eyes narrowed in on the two boys eagerly. She had placed Noah on the table now, her arm around his back supportively. Race cleared his throat and adjusted in his seat to get comfortable.

"A'right, uh…where should I begin," he said to himself. "Well, uh, ya know about Salvini, obviously, 'bout how he's been showin' up at O'Reilly's lately and ev'rything. Well, when you left ta go talk to 'im, Spot, O'Reilly stayed at my table fer a little while. As soon as ya left he says to me, 'Your boy know who he's dealin' with?'"

Spot's gaze strengthened in curiosity. He sat motionless as Race continued. He could feel Gabby's state of unmoving as well.

"I looked at 'im all funny 'cause I figgered he hearda him from when we was newsies, ya know? So he goes on to tell me, he says, 'That boy Salvini's sure climbin' the charts heah.' So I looked at him funny again 'cause I was real confused. This was the first time I heard someone else mention Salvini like that. I only remembered 'im from Harlem." Race paused and inhaled quite deeply on his cigar.

"O'Reilly went on to tell me that Salvini don't exactly got a 'day job,' if ya know what I mean. Says he's makin' real friendly with the Italian folk over on the West Side."

"S-so what, what does that mean? 'Make friendly,' what d'you mean?" interrupted Gabby in a flustered speed. Spot's eyes remained on Race but his hand went to rub Gabby's arm again.

"Well, Salvini's gettin' hisself a brotherhood, an' it ain't the good kind. I asked O'Reilly if he was talkin' about a gang er somethin', 'cause you coulda handled that, Conlon, I mean, seriously. But, no; says what Salvini's gettin' into his bigger than some lousy gang. It's this type 'a 'underground crime ring' that's startin' out real small, which is why nobody's heard about it much, but it's growin' real fast. They been tryin' ta take over some 'a the bars around heah and other places, like it's their place 'a business 'er somethin'. _What_ they're doin', O'Reilly didn't know…but he don't got a good feelin' about it. Says that's how Salvini's makin' a name for hisself."

Spot sighed at the conclusion of Race's story. He rested his elbows on the table's surface and held his heavy head in his sweating palms. His eyes closed and all he thought about was that fight he had with Salvini. There was an group of Italian men around him when he had entered.

"So why does he want me?" questioned Spot. "Why come after me when I'm outta Brooklyn?"

Race twirled his cigar around in his hand and shook his head slowly. "I don' know, Conlon. I really don' know."

A mixture of a gasp and a sigh issued from Gabby's side of the table and she got up, collecting the silverware and bowls to put onto the counter. Her hands shook violently as she hurriedly cleared away whatever was left. Anything dirty in the kitchen, she sought to clean it all up within a very short timeframe.

After several moments, Race got up and apologized for not bringing better news. Spot shook his head and said very little. He explained that he and Race would meet up again to discuss anything else that may have occurred; but for the time being, he just wanted to put his family to bed in peace.

The apartment's silence resonated with ferocity as Spot walked back from the front door. Noah sat alone on the table, making irritated, short cries and whimpers. Gabby stood at the counter facing the wall, unmoving. Spot could tell the news had hit her too hard. He couldn't help but feel guilty, but at the same time he felt she needed to know.

Slowly, Spot made his way over to Gabby. Before he could touch her, she turned around abruptly and picked up Noah.

"We'll leave then," she announced. "Tomorrow morning if possible. We'll leave. I don't want you or our son in any type of danger. We'll get out of this city, this fucking city and just…leave!" She carried Noah in her arms as she walked quickly into their bedroom.

Spot followed her and stood in the doorway while Gabby prepared Noah to go to sleep. The baby continued to reject his mother's help, and kicked and squirmed uncontrollably. Gabby increasingly became anxious with every task she did. Finally, she threw Noah's clothes to the ground in a fit of anger and turned away from Noah.

Hot tears running down her cheeks, Gabby rushed over to Spot and met him in a tight embrace. She cried and cried into his shoulder as he held her closer than he ever had, and all he could do was just that. It was then, that for the first time, in a long time, Noah had let out a shrill, piercing howl, even louder than the silence engulfing the room.


	14. A Different Form of Protection

A/N: Sorry it's been a while! I had these chapters separate but decided to combine them—Enjoy!

* * *

Spot had enlisted Jack's help to protect Gabby. Whenever Spot was at work and Gabby had errands to run, Jack went along with her, and Sarah looked after Noah while they were out. She couldn't say she was surprised about Spot's act of chivalry, but considering they did not speak for the longest time, that is exactly what she was. Surprised, pleasantly, of course.

"Where we off to today, Gabs?" inquired Jack with a comforting smile.

"Food."

Gabby found it fairly difficult to be as enthusiastic as Jack once the information concerning Johnny Salvini had been brought to their attention. But she could not deny how Jack's pleasant encouragement eased her somewhat, even if it didn't seem so on the outside.

After receiving detailed instructions about watching Noah for the afternoon, Sarah ushered them out of the apartment, insisting Gabby needed to get away from the environment for just a few hours. Jack and Gabby strolled along the sidewalk toward the market in a not-so-hurried fashion, for it seemed to be a not-so-hurried type of day. At least for the time being. For the most part, Gabby was silent, alone in her thoughts. Jack did most of the talking.

"So I walked right in dere and looked 'im in the eye 'an said, 'If you don' gimme this job, Mr. Portman, you'se gonna regret fer the rest 'a your life!'"

"What'd he say?" responded Gabby in a tone she wished sounded more engaging.

Jack breathed on his fingernails and pretended to dust shine them on his chest. "Got the job!"

"Good for you. I bet Sarah's happy."

"Beats workin' in the factory, that's fer sure. But it's real nice, Gabby, 'cause since I got experience in sellin' papers, Portman thinks I should be real good in 'is store. 'Specially women's clothing, ya know how I got that charm, right? Dames can't seem to turn me down. I mean, look at me, I'm a charmer."

He nudged Gabby and added a wink. Gabby smile softly. She inhaled deeply and let out a stressful sigh. A habit she had picked up from Spot whenever he was stressed, she rubbed her temples and forehead to work out the pain. It was quiet for a while after their conversation.

"It'll be a'right," said Jack suddenly in a more serious tone, "ya know that, right?"

Gabby stopped walking and looked curiously at Jack. His empathetic eyes met hers and he rubbed her arm supportively.

"Spot's got himself into trouble before, Gabby. But he always seems to find a way to get himself out. I mean, he's from Brooklyn fer God's sake."

Gabby couldn't help but let out another grateful, modest smile. They continued walking and she linked her arm in between Jack's, saying to him, "What'd we do without you, Jack?"

The market was busy and full of activity, as usual. But it didn't seem to get to Gabby as much as normal; she had her own stress to handle. Jack followed her around carrying the groceries and crossing off items on a small notepad he had taken with him. Most men would think this doting, helpful act was the least of all things masculine; but as it seemed, Jack was not most men, and Gabby appreciated that. She could use the extra sets of hands.

"A'right, got the potatoes, got the cabbage, got the carrots…What else?" asked Jack, looking up from the shopping list with an anticipating expression.

"Rum. Lots of it."

He let out an exaggerated chuckle and wrapped his arm around Gabby in her dark sense of humor for the time, saying, "Fer that you'd go to Race or Skittery. I'm just the grocery guy."

Gabby searched around the vendors and spotted the bakery store in the short distance. She notified Jack that they still needed to get bread, and he was quick to follow her. As they made their way through the weaving crowds, Gabby glanced over at a boy no older than Spot and Jack. He stopped in the middle of the market and turned around, a worried look on his face. Gabby's eyebrows knitted as she paused for some reason to watch this boy.

Suddenly, within a split second, the crowd before the boy parted and three pistols resonated in the air. The boy, no older than Spot, fell dead to the ground with three bullet holes, seeping scarlet red blood, from his chest.

Hysteria ensued within the market and the customers fled the street faster than a bolt of lightning. The men carrying the pistols rushed over to the body and readily dragged it away from the scene. Gabby stood motionless in her tracks for brief moments, until Jack draped his arm across her body and rushed her out of the street.

It was not until they speedily rounded the corner and Gabby had come out of her gaze did she realize what fully happened. She shook violently and her knees buckled beneath her. Breathing rapid, short breaths, she felt her stomach become queasy. But she couldn't get anything out but a few choking gasps of sobs.

Jack crouched beside her and held her close in comfort, reassuring her it would be all right, that it wasn't Spot that just happened to. Spot was at work, breathing, alive. Yet he couldn't help but feel the same pain she had.

* * *

"Bring the kid in heah. I need ta speak with 'im."

The burly, subservient man obeyed and opened the door. Moments later, Johnny Salvini entered the doorway of Salvinelli's cloistered, suffocating office. The hanging lamp rocked back and forth with each step of the person on the floor above them. A map of New York City hung on the wall, and the room was filled with thick cigar smoke.

"'Aftanoon," greeted Johnny properly. He nodded and stood up straight, feet shoulder-width apart and wriggling secretively within his Italian boots.

Antonio Salvinelli looked at Johnny subordinately and took out his pocket watch. "Good _evenin'_. Get ya'self a watch that works."

Johnny looked at the ground briefly and swallowed his tongue.

"Have a seat, kid."

At the ready, Johnny did as he was told and laced his sweaty fingers between each other on the dust-covered, splintered table. Salvinelli puffed on his cigar a little more and exhaled the smoke into Johnny's face without looking. The boy reserved his coughs.

"As you know," started Salvinelli, "my family's been in New York since 1852. My father and his father started their own deli just a few blocks from heah."

"Yes, sir, I-I know a lot of our history."

"First of all, do not interrupt me when I'm tawkin' ta you. It's disrespectful," ordered Salvinelli. He knocked back a glass of whiskey and continued. "You may be family ta me—and it's a miracle you even figgered that out—but you gotta learn ta treat me with the utmost respect, ya got that straight?"

"Y-Yes, sir. Yes." Johnny gulped down his tongue once more, if possible, and stared into his second uncle's dark, menacing eyes. A thick finger, complete with the Salvinelli family ring, pointed straight at him.

Not long ago, perhaps five months back, Johnny had somehow figured out that the Salvinelli's were blood-linked to him. After hasty research, hardly credible sources, and damn good job of convincing, Johnny had approached the Salvinelli Deli to speak with the owner.

He explained that his mother, Graziella, had had a love affair with one of the several Salvinelli boys in Italy when half of the family had immigrated to America—one group stayed in Manhattan while the other settled in Brooklyn. The other half of the Salvinelli family remained in Italy, angered, since Graziella's lover was to wed someone else. In turn, the Graziella Buccini and Franco Salvinelli fled secretly to America, where, during the immigration process, got their names changed from "Salvinelli" to "Salvini." They settled in Harlem, where Johnny was born, but tragically soon after, Graziella fell ill and died. A year later, his father was killed by a group of gang members, leaving Johnny to assume his position in the streets, as well as his alternative name.

The story was well-told and had convinced Gio Salvinelli, the owner of the deli at the time, and the family welcomed Johnny with partially open arms, as the story of Graziella's boy was not one of happiness, not to mention fishy.

"My grandfather was a brilliant man," continued Antonio Salvinelli, "and so was my father. They faced this city with ev'rything they had, took the all the hits and misses that went along wit it. We're one-hundred percent Italian and our types ain't accepted as much still. They handled it without lashing out at the ones who harmed the family."

Salvinelli took another swig of whiskey and went on, "Kid, I'm not my father or my father's father. This city destroyed their spirits. I ain't allowin' that to escape my mind. They lived and breathed fer this country and what'd they get in return? A couple 'a break-ins each month and a murder every year. And do the government recognize this? You bettah believe they don't."

Johnny nodded carefully. He knew all of this. He could hear Antonio rehearse this very speech every night at the dinner table in the apartment next to his. He just couldn't figure out why he needed to reiterate this.

Salvinelli scooted back in his creaky chair, which was amazingly able to withstand his weight, so that the map was in full view for Johnny to see. His eyes scanned the map, though he had memorized the entire paper, and placed his finger on his intended borough—Brooklyn.

"What can ya tell me?" asked Salvinelli.

"I'm workin' on it," replied Johnny, who smiled to himself. "Don't you worry."


	15. Driven

The Salvinelli's were least helpful toward settling Johnny into the family. It was sheer luck he had gotten his apartment anyway—the previous inhabitant, Antonio Salvinelli's nephew Gino, had been killed in an awfully suspicious scuffle not long before Johnny entered their apartment complex. The women fed him, as they were accustomed to doing so for everyone else, but the men were harder to impress or, even, to get respect from. Though they accepted Johnny's kinship, there seemed to be an ever-present elephant in the room whenever they were around, which no one could quite put their finger on.

Nevertheless, Johnny did not have much to complain about. After all, he didn't exactly have a luxurious, or even blessed, childhood. So, the tattered, skimpy curtains allowing too much wind breezing into the cramped, narrow apartment were not bad in Johnny's eyes. Indeed, the furniture was ripped here and there, the walls so paper thin he could hear Antonio Salvinelli insulting America every night to his wife Maria, but Johnny held his tongue. This was his family.

His duty thus far had come in different shapes and sizes—some tasks so small as picking up groceries, while others carried the magnitude of his current job. As he sucked down his umpteenth cigarette that afternoon, Johnny could not help but fear doubt in his plans, or lack thereof. He hadn't been in this "line of work" before, save for the amateur strategizing of the newsie realm. The undertaking, his obligation, was rather demanding—the constant emptying of his ashtray gave this away.

The last meeting he had with his second uncle Antonio, who actually felt more like a boss, was a month ago, during which his status-check response in regards toward Brooklyn was, "workin' on it." In all honesty, his progress was slow and frankly uneventful as far as actions were concerned. Johnny, being in subordination still, did not call for a meeting and so hoped to rely on dinner each evening to converse with Antonio Salvinelli; however, it only took one supper to remind him not to do it again:

"No busi-_ness_ at the table!" Maria had scolded with a strong Italian tongue and an adamant smack to his head, so adamant, in fact, his hat fell off.

"No hats at the table," Antonio had reprimanded with another hit to Johnny's skull. "Didn't your mamá teach you anythin'?"

Before Johnny's silence could make enough of an impact, Maria had shouted from the kitchen, "Don't you _remember_ his mamá, Antonio? Ah!"

Presently, recalling this memory sparked a thought in Johnny's scheming mind. He wrote it down vigorously on his notepad and stared at it. The words been swimming around in his head for quite a while; it was only a matter of time before he brought it to the surface.

He could feel himself definitely on to something, though he couldn't reach it just yet. Instead, Johnny stood up from his flat excuse for a mattress. He felt his legs stretch for the first time in hours and staggered over to the window. He took his flake-filled ashtray and tossed the contents into the wind.

He looked across the busied streets below him and scanned over the buildings. It brought him back to the speech Antonio gave him almost every time they had a meeting:

"_'This city destroyed their spirits_," he had memorized, "'_I ain't allowin' that to escape my mind._'"

Johnny was back at his notepad. He scribbled these words underneath his previous thought. It was evident, as he repeated everything on the notepad out loud, that Johnny's motivation was getting clearer.

First and foremost, his obligation belonged to his family.

"'Begin by takin' someone out that's got some influence in Brooklyn,'" Johnny recalled his uncle's words, "'Don't have to be big, I need you ta test the waters a lil' bit, know what I'm sayin'? We got more people in Brooklyn so it's not all on yer shoulders. No way I'm lettin' ya mess up somethin' this important…'"

But the other motivation had been tucked away in his mind, only pondered about on afternoons such as this. But he had written it down now! There it was, in writing, lying before him! It was clear what else was driving him now.

_Árdanach Thirteen. _

It gave him goosebumps. His mind and imagination ran away from him and it was as if someone else had taken hold of his pen. He couldn't stop. The emotion flowed so easily onto the paper in plain sight. As he poured his soul and morphed it into a plan, a sharp breeze picked up outside his window. The papers, his precious papers, caught the wind and floated about the room. Johnny sprang up and presently chased them as if life, his precious life, had depended on them.


	16. The Visitor

"So are we just gonna sit heah an' wait fer him to do somethin'?"

The question Jack Kelly posed required much thought on Spot Conlon's behalf. As they sat in the living room, Noah squirming considerably on his father's lap, Jack eyed the former Brooklyn ruler who used to be so good at strategizing. It seemed nowadays he was distracted but many other things and was not paying appropriate attention to the situation at hand.

"Well, I haven't really thought about that, to tell ya the truth, Jack." Spot pulled up Noah by his arms and brought him back down in a _swoos_hing fashion, thus enticing the infant to erupt in a fit of giggles.

"I mean, it's been a long time since Salvini did anythin' to me anyway…" trailed Spot, much to the frustration of Jack. "I think he was just messin' with me, in some way. Nothin's happened over in Brooklyn so far, either. I've kinda let it pass."

"Race hasn't said anythin' to you either? Hasn't seen Salvini at the Social Club lately?"

"No, which is another reason I ain't as concerned as I was before. Gabby an' I were about to pack up an' leave about a month ago, but I told her we'd wait it out a couple 'a days. I didn't wanna just run away." He took Noah by the arms again and set him standing straight up on the floor. Ambitious, Spot let go of his child's arms only to watch him lose his balance and fall right on his butt.

"Yeah, she didn't like hearin' that too much, but we waited and nothin' happened. Honestly, nothin's happened to me since the last time I saw Salvini at the Club."

Jack nodded and sat back in his chair. Gabby and Sarah moved quickly about the kitchen, preparing dinner and cooking up a storm. From where Jack sat, Spot maybe was right. Gabby did not look particularly alarmed or under a tremendous amount of stress. She chatted constantly with Sarah over things which did not really hold much purpose and the two laughed between conversations. Even so, Jack couldn't shake the memory of the time he and Gabby were in the market and a boy Spot's age was killed.

The door produced a round of knocks and Spot promptly set Noah on Jack's lap. He opened the door and greeted Bolt with a grateful hug. In truth, it had been a while since the two had seen each other as well; the last time they had met up was the time of the fire in Brooklyn.

"Before I come in, can we talk outside real quick?" inquired Bolt.

Spot hesitated, calculating the possibilities of what the two were to talk about. He pulled the door shut and they walked to the end of the hallway.

"So, we got Queens outta Brooklyn fer good," informed Bolt. The boy, who had gained a much-needed amount of weight, pressed his lips together as if trying not to burst with pride. "Took some 'a my guys, walked right into Queens, had a friendly lil' chat, some 'a them got a few fingers broken, but next day, no more Queens in Brooklyn."

Spot smiled proudly and nodded his head. He wasn't quite sure what to say, for he couldn't help but want to bust out a round of "I told you so." Instead, he shook Bolt's hand and they walked back into the apartment.

As they sat down to eat the hearty meal Gabby and Sarah had provided, Spot also couldn't help but think his life was actually back on track for a change. Salvini was starting to fade out of the picture, at least it had seemed so; Bolt was taking back Brooklyn; and he and Gabby were actually getting along. Things couldn't be better. It was as if he was starting to live a kind of life he had never had: normal.

But then, a round of knocks came to the door. Spot hopped up presently, after actually being polite and excusing himself, and made his way over. He couldn't rightly imagine who would be visiting them. He didn't foresee it to be a bearer of bad tidings or a messenger with some ill-fated message to bring him. However, as he opened the door, out of all people, he didn't expect to see:

"Kat."

The luscious, desirable blonde he had once kept to live out his fantasies stood in all her glory in his doorway. The dinner conversation did not stop even in his absence, yet he closed the door and stood narrowly with his back against it.

"Hey Spot," breathed Kat sensually. She blinked slowly, as if still in the daze he had last seen her in, all that time ago, and leaned her arm against the doorframe. Conveniently, the strap to her dress slid off her shoulder and her clothes seemed too fitted to be appropriate in the first place.

"Haven't seen you in a while, baby." Kat brought up her hand and glided it over the rough outline of his brow down to his jaw. The touch of her hand gave him goosebumps on the back of his neck.

"What're ya doin' here, Kat?" He took hold of her wrist gently and let it down from his face.

"So serious." Kat scrunched up her eyebrows in an exaggerated imitation of Spot and moved in, slowly, close to him. Spot grabbed the doorknob behind his back to prevent anyone from exiting his home.

"I think you an' I needa get together," whispered Kat, "I juss got some opium this afternoon and I couldn't help but think of you."

Kat was now so close to him that practically every inch of her was in contact with him. She pressed her body against his and spoke within an inch of his lips. Spot held the doorknob closer than ever and resisted the temptation that so willingly lay before him. Her lips touched his. But only for a second.

"No, Kat, I can't do this." He turned his head away and wiped his mouth.

"Yes, yes you can." She softly grabbed his face and turned her back toward her. "C'mon, one last time."

"Kat, please."

"I never got to properly say goodbye, Brooklyn," whispered Kat into his ear.

Spot let go of the doorknob and took hold of both her wrists. He set them down and moved her body away from his, saying, "Kat, you really do needa go. I gotta get back to dinner, okay?"

Kat grabbed onto the collar of his shirt, now with more force. A certain urgency gathered in her eye, and Spot had never registered that feeling to be within her before. He shook the thought away and turned away.

"Spot, you don't understand…"

"Jesus, Kat, we're done."

"You really have to come with me…"

"Goodbye Kat."

Kat then gripped his arm with alarming force and spun him around vehemently. Spot eyed her both curiously and on the verge of frustration. The dazed, tranquil, drugged out look her in her eyes was gone. Her speech was no longer slurred and there was a vivid tone of distress in her voice.

She grabbed a hold of both sides of his collar and looked him square in the eye. Slowly and urgently, she spoke, "I know about Johnny."

Spot felt his stomach drop but still felt utterly confused. Quickly, he responded, "What're you talkin' about?"

"Johnny Salvini. I know all about him, what's he's done, what he did to you, and…" Kat bit her lip and breathed rapidly now, "Spot, you need to come with me. I need to talk to you."

Spot felt there was something important to be discovered if he went with her. There was a moment of time when he couldn't register what the present time was telling him. But he listened to Kat and went with his instinct. He heard himself say:

"Let me get my coat. I'll be right back."


	17. The Other Woman

It was quite possibly one of the most awkward exits Spot Conlon had ever made. After Kat had informed him she knew about Johnny Salvini, Spot hurried into the apartment and sincerely hoped nobody would notice his leaving again.

"Where're you going?" inquired Gabby, utterly confused as she ran after him towards the door, leaving the table in the middle of their engaging conversation. "You can't honestly tell me you have something to do at eight o'clock at night."

Spot's bottom lip fell open and a droning, monotonous tone issued from his mouth. He stalled, his mind going so fast and coming to a complete halt again within the span of ten seconds. Gabby grew more suspicious with every passing moment, the old feelings of his negligence beginning to resurface. Her calculating gaze softened as she attempted to keep hidden the emotions flooding into her system.

Coming back to the present now, Spot's hardly present intuition attuned to the situation. He let go of the doorknob and made his best effort to formulate an explanation that would not sound like his old excuses of the past.

"Look, Gabby, I know this looks bad…" began Spot.

He hesitated, thinking, and looked at Gabby. A certain light caught her gaze and enhanced the evergreen hues of her eyes with life only just a little. But it was more than enough for Spot. He reached his hand softly behind her neck and, boldly, kissed her lips. He pressed the side of his face against hers and whispered directly into her ear, "Please trust me."

Gabby closed her eyes and sought out the power to do so. Inwardly she wrestled with the request. Yet she found herself wrapping her arms around him and she agreed.

Spot threw on his jacket as he bounded down the stairway. Kat waited anxiously at the doorway, her fingers fidgeting and foot tapping nervously against the wooden floor. Just before they left, Spot grabbed her arm and spun her around quickly.

"How do I know this ain't a set-up?" asked Spot, the grip on Kat tightening slightly. "How can I trust you?"

Kat flung away free from his grasp and gave him a stern look. She looked him in the eye and said, "Because your whole life is about to wiped out and I'm the only one who could be of any use to you."

She turned and ordered him to follow, leaving an entirely surprised yet partially thankful Spot in its wake. They walked in silence, weaving in and out of the Manhattan evening traffic. Almost four blocks later, they arrived at Kat's apartment. The hallway and staircases were dark, almost impossible to see the floor below their feet. Spot felt a cold breeze whip around his face and slick the back of his neck with sweat. He could barely see Kat and he had no idea what lay before him, but he trusted her. For some unknown reason, he trusted her.

Kat's apartment was illuminated vaguely by a light in the corner. She locked the door three different times and raced over to the windows and shut them with tremendous force. Spot took a seat slowly, letting himself bathe slightly in the light. Kat rushed over to the couch and sat down, her face inches from the lamp's ray of light. She faced him and took a deep breath.

"This hardly seems credible, I know," began Kat, "but you're just really going to have to try and believe me. I probably seem a little different than when we were together…"

"Different, I'm havin' trouble recognizin' you," interrupted Spot. Had she not been so seemingly overwhelmed with anxiety, he would have seen her eyes to be more vivid. But as it was, they were not.

"Yeah, helps me get customers," mumbled Kat almost inaudibly as she readjusted her seat. "But anyway, I came to talk to you about Salvini, obviously. I met him last night at a bar near the river…"

"_I'm low on cash…" murmured Kat as she squeezed entrance onto a barstool. Her revealing cleavage brushed against heavily the shoulder of a young man with his white fingers curled around a glass of whiskey._

_He turned his head and let his dark brown eyes travel from the top of Kat's flaxen curls down to her long, laced legs. With an arrogant smirk he ordered another whiskey and the two clinked glasses._

"_Don't think I've seen you 'round here much," conversed Kat in her breathy, come-hither type of voice. "I'm sure I would've recognized ya."_

"_Ya know, I haven't been in Manhattan for a real long time. I'm Johnny. Johnny Salvini." The young man took hold of Kat's hand tightly and kissed her olive skin._

_Kat recoiled a little. For some reason, a chill ran up her spine and her muscles tensed up. She had been doing this for three years now, and had been taken to so many places, been in so many apartments, slept in so many beds, that she was a private, one-woman, Manhattan strip show. Men as young as fifteen and as old as forty had had the pleasure of getting to know Kat, and it was her identity. So she couldn't quite figure the feeling she got when Johnny touched her._

"_Well," breathed Kat nervously, "it's, uh, lovely to have met you Mr. Salvini. Thank you for the drink."_

_As she hopped down off the stool in an attempt to merge through the cramped, overpopulated speakeasy, Kat felt a strong hold on her arm._

"_Whoa, where you off to so quick, beautiful?"_

_Johnny glided her back to her previous seat and moved his fingertips in and out of her flesh. His fair-skinned face held the smug expression of an arrogant man on a power trip. His smirking expression made it almost impossible for Kat to look at him without being frightened._

"_You wanna 'nother drink, don'tcha?"_

_Johnny's hands flew to Kat's teeny hips and he propped her up to his liking onto the barstool. He ordered her another drink and toasted to such a beautiful night. They spoke for some time amidst the noises around them and Kat tried her best to calm herself down every time his hand slid over her body or the feel of his breath caused the back of her neck to tingle in fright._

_Just as he finished up a conversation which Kat could not rightly recall, another boy his age stumbled over to their area. Undoubtedly Italian, the young man was to the point of passing out as he fell completely into Johnny's lap._

"_You'll have to excuse me," said Johnny as he stood his friend upright, "Nico has a slight drinking problem. I'll just toss 'im out back real quick…"_

"_Hey, Salvini, you ain't goin' anywhere till yer friend pays for his drinks," interrupted the bartender. "Macaroni heah owes me almost ten bucks."_

_Hardly affected by this, Johnny reached difficultly into his pocket under the full weight of Nico, and tossed his wallet to Kat. He told her to pay the bartender for Nico's and their drinks, and he would be right back. Kat, being the master of deceit that she was, took this opportunity to investigate the young man's earnings. She felt relieved knowing she could just take the boy's money and hop out of there without actually having to earn it. Kat opened Johnny's wallet to see not two or three, but merely wads, of cash. She blinked for a moment with her mouth agape._

"_Lady, you gonna pay fer those drinks er not?" demanded the overly stressed bartender._

_She tossed him the intended money and bounced off the barstool, stuffing the wallet into her already tight-fitting dress. As she made her way through the crowded room, a familiar hand grabbed her arm intensely and she turned to see Johnny._

"_Ya're not gettin' off that easy, princess," said Johnny._

_Kat sighed in defeat and dug around her cleavage to retrieve his wallet. But Johnny stopped her._

"_No, you keep it fer now."_

_Kat eyed him suspiciously and a nervous feeling came over her._

_Johnny placed his fingertip on her lips and as he spoke, moved it slowly downward toward her chest._

"_You come with me fer the night…and later on we'll whip out that wallet…or if it should happen to fall out… and see whatcha get." His fingertip reached the top of her dress that overexposed her breasts, and Kat gasped._

"Please don't tell me anymore 'a this," interrupted Spot, "I can't take anymore 'a this." He sat back and closed his eyes. His fingers massaged his eye sockets so hard he hoped he would eventually rub away any trace of Johnny from his memory.

"I'm sorry Spot, but you need to hear what happened later."

_Shaken and more nervous than she had ever been, Kat walked alongside Johnny, making their way down the street away from the safety of the crowded bar. His arm slung around her neck tightly. He did not talk with Kat, and she did not talk with him._

_They walked for close to an hour. Kat's trembling feet were warm with blood from the worn-out boots she had worn that night; her nerves had been shaking since the moment she met Johnny and had only worsened once they arrived at the door of Johnny's apartment. Every doorway was a different man, but they were always the same doorway for Kat; Johnny's was especially different._

_He began kissing her fiercely the moment the door closed. Kat's performance was not as up to par compared to her recent experiences, but she shut her mind off and only thought of the size of Johnny's wallet (hey, she needed new shoes now), even if did conflict with the fact that his apartment was skimpy and lacking several necessities._

_Just as he started unbuttoning her dress, the door flung wide open and there stood Kat's savior in the doorway, a wide silhouette of Antonio Salvinelli hindered the light spilling in from the hallway. Johnny cursed to himself a few rounds before tossing Kat under the covers, and he left the room. Kat sighed and sat up in bed, putting herself back together. In her experience, usually a familiar intruder meant the night was over. She wandered around the dark room in search of the rest of her clothes. She also couldn't help but notice Johnny's wallet still wedged between her breasts still, and couldn't help but smile._

"…_Uncle, you just gotta trust me."_

"_How can I do that, Johnny? Huh? I don' even know your any 'a yer plans, I can't figure out any 'a those notepads you been slippin' me at dinner! I ain't heard 'a no Spot Conlon, and I'm failin' to see why yer so obsessed with this guy…"_

_Kat stopped movement as her hand reached to the ground to grab her scattered garments. The conversation on the other side of the door intrigued her._

"_I know, ya don' think it's worth it, but trust me, Uncle, it is. This Conlon guy's a real way to boost my numbers."_

"_Is that all you care about? Movin' up the ranks in this family?"_

"_No, yer misunderstandin' me—"_

"_This ain't about the killin', Johnny. This ain't no sport. I don't want you thinkin' this job is some kinda warm-up er practice to get you started. We actually _do_ have a purpose in what we're doin'."_

_Kat tiptoed closer to the door._

"_I know, but Uncle, please. Spot Conlon's got purpose in this. Yeah, I'm learnin' some ropes along the way, but really I'm thinkin' about the subject involved. Conlon holds more cards than ya think he does. He won't be a main factor fer me fer much longer."_

_There was pause in conversation and Kat could tell the older man was stopping, deep in thought. Her curious mind couldn't help but wonder what sort of lives these people lived, even though a rule of thumb in this line of work was to never think too much about the client._

"_And it's got nothin' to do with this boy's family? I'm not stagin' a revenge fer ev'rybody."_

_Another pause. Curiouser and curiouser; Kat was beginning to feel a little bit like Alice._

"_No, sir."_

_The conversation ended abruptly and Johnny swung open his apartment door. Kat up righted herself and tried to look as though she had done nothing wrong. The flood of light created another, almost ghostly, silhouette of Johnny as she stood staring at her in the doorway._

"_Get out," he ordered._

_Kat, relieved, picked up the rest of her clothes and scurried out of there. Johnny grabbed her arm once more, reached deep into her cleavage, and retrieved his wallet, all with a smug smile on his pallid face._


	18. Down the Rabbit Hole

Spot Conlon held his forehead in his heads at the finish of Kat's story. The room was silent as he absorbed the information. Kat could sense the amount of stress she had put over Spot, yet she knew she had done the right thing.

"I don' even know what to think now," muttered Spot. "I gotta leave, I can't stay here anymore."

"Spot, you can just let someone like Johnny run your life. Running away from this is only gonna cause more problems. I've been around guys like him before, and let me tell you, they don't just let you get away that easy. They know their people and they'll find you."

"And what if he goes after my family?" inquired Spot with more anger and vigor than before. "Huh? What if he goes after Gabby or Jack or the Jacobs'? What am I gonna do then?"

Kat was silent. She laced her fingers, which were now pale as death itself, between each other and placed them on her lap. She was at a loss for words and could not formulate a plan to save her soul. She had been dragged into the mix now, and was not morally able to just up and leave.

"Look, I remember where he lives," spoke Kat, "I can take you there if you want."

"What good would that do? So I can see where the son of a bitch sleeps? Where he probably sits and comes up with plans like burnin' down the Brooklyn lodging house, comin' to find me at O'Reilly's? You think I wanna see that, Kat? Jesus! Why's this gotta happen to me! I left Brooklyn, it's dead to me! Now Johnny comes in an' threatens 'a takin' out my whole life before I've even lived it! I got a child at home, Kat. Now what am I gonna do?"

"I'm just sayin' it might be easier if you go and see what you're dealin' with. Just go and see if something hits you, like a plan or something. I'll go with you, I'm too deep in this now to back out."

Spot, though heated, could appreciate Kat's loyalty. She put one pale hand over his and looked him in the eye. He didn't know why, but at that moment, he thought of Gabby. Her face came to his mind of dinner that had taken place in his normal life just an hour ago. And there was Noah, who he had played with not long before that. Now Kat, a ghost from his past, the other woman, had his hand over his in hopes of comforting the troubled young man before her, taking him deeper down the rabbit hole chasing the white, and in this case Italian, rabbit.

"Okay. We'll go there tomorrow," agreed Spot after a few moments. "But you're comin' with me 'cause I don' want ya stayin' heah alone. I'll take you ta my friend Race's house. I'm sure he'll be glad ta keep ya…"

Kat's hand removed itself from his and she was unsure how to react. They got up from the couch, getting ready to leave as Kat gathered a few things from the room.

"Can I ask ya somethin'?" inquired Spot before they opened the door.

"Sure, if I can ask you somethin' in return."

"I nevah paid you. I didn't know that's what we had goin' on…" trailed Spot, awkwardly.

Kat smiled in spite of herself and almost breathed a laugh. She put her frail hand on Spot's cheek and replied, "That's because I didn't consider you a client."

Spot felt his cheek burn a little and he smiled, almost smugly.

"Now for my question. What's this have to do with your family?"

"Family?"

"Yeah. The older man asked Johnny if what he was doing had anything to do with your family."

Spot eyed her as he took in her question. He knew it was there. He knew the answer right away. He only had trouble finding the power to actually speak it. With a simple shake of his head, he answered, "My family. I'm gonna say that's goin' back to my newsie days…"

Kat nodded, still skeptical as if she did not believe a word he had said. There was an even more awkward silence following the conversation. They stood near the closed door for a moment until each had gathered themselves to leave again. Spot unlocked the various different locks and twisted open the doorknob. To their surprise and terror, there stood a man that could only leave his memory with Spot for merely a second. Before Spot even had time to react or even think, the man raised his shoulders and forcefully dealt a blow to Spot's head with a bat. Conlon fell to the ground with a resonating thud, unconscious.

Had anyone else, unknowing to the situation, walked by the apartment, they would have surely known, that the young man who had once ruled over his kingdom with such prosperity, was without a doubt, dead.

* * *

**A/N:** To be continued! 


	19. Hide and Seek

Though Gabby had been concerned the moment Spot had set foot out the door, she had not felt the full capacity of such worry until the clock struck midnight that evening. Once a master of deception herself, she had concealed her distress toward her dinner guests when they asked where Spot was going or when he would return. She had faked a smile and brushed it off, urging they needed to continue with their supper. It seemed, however, Jack Kelly could see straight through her; he eyed her with both suspicion and concern the rest of the evening.

Presently, Gabby stood pacing about the apartment while Noah sat quietly on the chair. Her fingernails were chewed down to practically nothing, and she frequently became so sick with worry she had to stop her pacing and compose herself. She recalled having the exact same feeling the day of the rumble between Brooklyn and Queens a couple of years ago; though she had been tied to Queens and their crafty leader Tyce Nichols at the time, her true loyalties remained to the one person she had been fooling the entire time, Spot Conlon. That day she had worried not for her own life, but that of Spot's, and at the current time she felt as though time had not fluttered an eyelid in her direction.

"Happens all the time," muttered Gabby to herself, "all the time. He's come home this late all the time. Sometimes later. No worries. It'll all be fine. Fine. Okay. Great. It's okay, we'll be okay."

She turned to her infant Noah who sat, mouth agape and staring at Gabby like a foreign creature. As if he were able to understand, she asked him, "You're not worried, are you? I mean, this happens all the time, so there isn't anything to stress about, is there?"

Noah, after a considerable time, turned his head in another direction and raised his arms in the air which preceded a shrieking howl. Gabby gasped and turned away from Noah. The infant began reaching his arms forth to her and murmuring sounds which lacked anything understandable. She crossed her arms over her chest and attempted to tune out the sounds of her son.

Not long afterward did a threatening sound issue from the other side of their door in the hallway. Gabby rushed over to Noah and covered her hand over his mouth. She listened carefully, for it sounded as though a small group of men had entered the building and bounded up the stairway. They pounded on doors and shouted to recipients they were not seeking. Gabby, her hand still cupped over Noah's mouth, picked him up and hurried toward her bedroom, praying to God she had locked the front door when the others had left.

She threw open the closet and threw herself and Noah to the floor. Outside the dark, dust-ridden hiding space, sound indicated the intruders had reached their apartment. Forceful hands wriggled and fidgeted with the doorknob, so vigorously it was a surprise the knob did not give way so easily. Instead, Gabby felt her entire body jump out of her skin when a bullet seared through the front door and it opened with a jolt.

While the intruders made their way inside, Gabby heard the protests of other tenants in the building. Likewise, they were hushed when another round of bullets cut through the air, followed by the bone-chilling screams of others. Noah squirmed nearly out of control as Gabby held him with a death grip to her body, and he soon started chewing on her hand with the few teeth he had.

The intruders stomped their way around the apartment, opening the cabinets and hurling dishes and silverware to the floor. They turned over furniture and rampaged through anything of value. Mumbled, harsh voices speaking in lively Italian resounded through the walls. They wavered closer and further, closer and further, indecisively playing mind games with their victims.

Gabby's body raked with nerves as her heart beat rapidly against her chest. Sweat rolled down the sides of her face and she covered her own mouth to prevent any indication of their hiding spot. The bedroom door was kicked open with a startling jolt. The voices were clearer and closer than ever. Shadows of their feet scurried past the narrow space between the closet door and the floorboards.

Her eyes begging her to turn away, Gabby watched the shadows with dizzying appeal. She then noticed her dress. The blue lining of the bottom trim had gotten wedged between the door and the doorframe when she had closed it. Just underneath the handle was a piece of her bright blue garment sticking out to the other side for all to see, and the men were still rampant and present inside the bedroom.

A shaking, perspiring hand grabbed hold of the dress carefully. Closing her eyes, she yanked the fabric toward her. The motion shook the door. The garment tore with a resounding _RRRIIIPP_ that seemed to stop time altogether. Gabby held her breath and froze. The shadows that had danced along the floorboards had now stopped at the closet door.

* * *

Hours later, Spot Conlon began streaming back into consciousness. Though his eyes were difficult to open at first, he felt his body in the largest amount of pain he had ever been. A throbbing, pounding feeling beat at his skull and his stomach felt as though someone had ripped out his insides. His back was sore yet stationary and upright, and his legs the same. He was unable to move any part of his arms except his fingers.

Spot's eyelids fluttered open and he was greeted with complete darkness, save for the narrow light streaming in from the floor. Opening his eyes completely, his head lifted with a jolt and he found himself occupying a confined and dank space, bound by his legs and waist to a chair, his arms tied so tightly behind his back he had almost lost feeling in them. An instinctive cry issued forth from the deepest part of his throat but was quickly muffled by a cloth pulled between his teeth and tied at the back of his head. As far as he was concerned, he might as well have already been dead.

"I told you, Johnny, I was double-crossin' him!"

Hyperventilating and feeling himself shaking beyond control, Spot could make out a conversation taking place on the other side of the door. Through his rapid breaths he could lean forward just enough to hear what was going on through the walls.

"Liar!" The speaker dealt a forceful smack across the face of his victim, which responded with a feminine gasp.

"If you was double-crossin' 'im, you woulda told me about it."

"Johnny, I swear…" The girl's voice broke for a moment. "Why would I care about Spot?"

"Same reason you woulda cared about me, and you _don't_! I ain't stupid!" The male then delivered another hard hit to the girl, who broke down and started sobbing.

Spot still breathed harder and harder with each passing moment, and it only intensified when he realized who was doing the speaking on the other side of the door. Kat was speaking with Johnny, and she was getting beaten, or even tortured, on Spot's behalf. Realizing this only worsened the pain.

Assuming there was no one else in the room, Spot watched the shadow of Johnny's feet pace slowly up and down outside. He could hear Kat hyperventilating, and could even hear that her breaths were forced and bound by constraints such as his own.

"You wanna know how I know you're lyin' to me?" questioned Johnny in a malicious tone, "'cause I was told Conlon was seen with some blonde prostitute strollin' up an' down the streets 'a Manhattan. Now, does that seem natural? No! An' that was _way_ before I picked you up like the filthy whore you are! Thought I may've recognized ya that night, huh? So when we're talkin' _logic_ally heah, you had to 'ave already known Conlon when I picked you up. An' when we was interrupted by my uncle, you logically musta been listenin' to the conversation outside the door! Startin' to see how all this makes sense, ya dirty whore? Or did yer brain get banged outta yer head from all the guys you've fucked!"

A grunt came from Kat and was soon followed by a groan of pain from Johnny; Spot could only assume she had not been bound as much as he in order to punch or kick her opponent. Johnny rattled off a round of curses in response and he heard him practically knock Kat out entirely so that she was no longer conscious.

"Don' you _evah_ put yer dirty hands on me again, a'right? Got that, ya lousy bitch?"

Another hit to her face, another groan from Kat.

"Johnny…" gasped Kat, "what makes ya think…I even liked Spot to begin with? How d'you know it wasn't _you_ I was interested in, huh? How d'you know it wasn't _you_ I was tryin' to help!"

"How do I know that? Well, does this ring any bells? 'I nevah paid you…' 'That's because I didn't consider you a client,'" mimicked Johnny in a twisted imitation of both Spot and Kat during their conversation just before they had prepared to leave Kat's apartment.

"Ya gotta believe me, Johnny, I swear…"

"No. An' it's too bad I don't."

Spot heard Johnny make his way toward the door and open it casually. He said something inaudible to a person who must have been standing outside, for Spot could not make out what was said.

"Johnny, please! I promise! You let me go, I'll work for you, no money charged!" Kat was becoming even more desperate by the second, as if her life had been suddenly put on the line.

"No, Kat!" shouted Johnny. In a lower tone of voice, "Get rid of 'er, Nico."

"No! Please! Don't do this, I can help you I swear!" The terror in Kat's voice sent shivers shooting straight up Spot's spine and he found himself trying to break free more than ever as if they were taking _him_ away instead of her.

"Don't forget yer manners, Kat, thank me fer my hospitality!" spat Johnny in a louder voice as if Kat was leaving the room.

"Spot!" shouted Kat in a drifting voice. "Spot, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! Don't let 'em do this ta you!"

Conlon rocked his entire body back and forth, side to side in rapid motions as Kat called to him from the outside. He heard her screams and heard them fading away the more he heard her struggle and fight back. His bones were nearly breaking with the force he was putting on them, his tongue rich with blood in his mouth. He had to get out, if not for himself but for Kat.

"Don't let 'em get away with—"

A single shot resonated from the outside. Spot sat frozen in terror and there was the most painful silence to engulf the world as there ever was. He wanted to vomit, but he could barely even breathe. With all his might he tried to break the chair, but it wouldn't budge. Footsteps echoed towards the door from the outside and the doorknob twisted open. Spot looked up pathetically into the eyes of a vengeful, ruthless Johnny who looked as though he had already murdered him in cold blood.

* * *

**A/N:** I hope you're shaken, because that was the most intense and fastest chapter I've ever written in my life! I have to thank the horror movies my friends made me watch this past week, for I think they have left too many pieces with me. More to come later! 


	20. Sacrifice

**A/N:** Long chapter, but splitting it would not be right. Bear with me, for the end is quite abstract. _Stretch your mind_…hehe.

* * *

Spot knew not to hold his breath. Though he had been carried out of the pitch black closet, he knew sometimes it was better to be kept in the dark in situations such as this—although he could not recall many times which he had been knocked unconscious and stuffed into a closet. Although he would have never told you if you asked, but he had never been more scored in his entire life; scared for himself, yes, but more for Gabby and Noah. He need help. 

He sat, still bound and gagged, in the middle of an empty room which held only a dresser against the wall in front of him and a light standing in the corner. Johnny stood beside him currently, unwinding the blood-soaked cloths from his mouth. Spot watched him out of the corners of his eyes with more malice and hatred than he ever knew he could possess.

"Jesus, Conlon, you bite yer tongue er somethin' in there?" asked Johnny, repulsed, as he tossed the scarlet-colored rag across the room.

Before measuring its consequences, Spot hocked back every fluid he had in his mouth and hurled it at Johnny's face, an immature act of assault, indeed, yet extremely well-deserved in Spot's opinion. The Italian quickly wiped it away, even more repulsed now, and back-handed his opponent across the face. His knuckles collided with the bridge of Spot's nose, more pain to enveloping his face.

"Now, yer probably wonderin'…" began Johnny, as if making polite conversation. He hopped up, almost jovially, onto the surface of the dresser in front of Spot. "Why am I doin' this to ya, huh?"

Spot eyed the boy who looked as though he lost ten years while he dangled his feet from the surface of the dresser. He sighed, answering him in a biting, sarcastic tone, "Ya think?"

"Yeah, I'd probably be a lil' suspicious about things if I found myself trapped in a closet a three in the mornin'." Johnny yawned exaggeratedly and continued, "Anyway, I'm gettin' kinda tired so let's just cut to the chase."

Spot sighed again impatiently and turned his eyes away from Johnny's. His feet tapped against the floor incessantly.

"Ya're probably thinkin' to yerself, 'This guy's just pissed off 'bout the way things turned out a few years ago,' but ya couldn't be more wrong, Conlon." He hopped down onto the floor and began walking about the room slowly, as if making a speech. "Well, I mean, ta be honest, that _is_ one reason why I hate yer guts, but not _entirely_…"

"Save the story, Johnny, just tell me why I'm heah, a'right?" spoke Spot with extreme agitation.

"Hey." Johnny smacked him in the back of his head. "Don't be mean. I hold more cards than ya think I do, Conlon. Wouldn't be wise to piss _me_ off, of all people, know what I'm sayin'? Oh, if yer still wonderin', I didn't lie when I told ya I didn't start that fire at the lodgin' house over in Brooklyn. I mean, I _did_ play a part in it, but only 'cause I was in charge 'a Queens at the time…That's another thing I should tell ya before I kill ya. I had my Queens boys wander 'round Brooklyn fer a while. They started that fire like I told 'em to. Ha! What's even funnier is that you did exactly what I thought you'd do. Ya walk tall but yer still as predictable as evah…"

Johnny walked over to the door and looked into the hallway. Spot watched him curiously with fearful anticipation. It took a moment for him to absorb the information; on some level he knew without a doubt that Johnny played a part in Queens bothering Brooklyn; but he also felt at ease when Bolt told him they had gotten them out of there. So he couldn't help but anticipate Bolt coming to his rescue at the present time, the way he had done for him so many times in the past; but he felt that was next to impossible.

He felt his heart speed up and feared what Johnny could be looking for in that hallway. After a moment, the Italian shook his head and entered back into the room.

"So, where were we? Oh, yeah. I hate you for a different reason, Conlon. I mean, yes, you were in charge of the most intimidating borough in all 'a New York; yes, you defeated Tyce, my only ally in that…war, if that's whatcha wanna call it; yes, you was probably the most respected newsie in the whole city. But when ya dig a little deeper, Conlon, you an' I go _way_ back. Before we was even newsies. An' ya might not even realize it…"

"Whadda ya talkin' about, Johnny?" Spot's eyebrows knitted in confusion. He searched his mind to the furthest corner as quickly as he could to possibly advance one step ahead of him.

Johnny smiled crookedly and smugly. He pulled a chair from the corner and sat strangely close to Spot, who recoiled at the tight distance. Johnny leaned forward on the backrest of his seat with his elbows and set his chin on his arms.

"Why don'tcha tell me yer father's name, before we start," requested Johnny.

Spot was cautious. There was only one reason Johnny Salvini would want to know the name of his father, and it suddenly started to become much clearer. Spot's father, when he was their age, was considered the predecessor of Spot's Brooklyn. He had known fame, even in his prime, but in a way that was not as admirable for some. His father, he had been told before he was killed when Spot was no older than six, was a well-respected figure of the underworld of New York City, his roots in Brooklyn. He was in charge of his gang.

"C'mon, Spot, tell me the name,"

"Patrick Conlon," said Spot lowly. He hung his head and felt the strain on his neck and was unwilling to fix it. He could feel the defeat coming, there was nothing he could do to erase his father's past, and more than likely this had something to do with it.

"Patrick Conlon!" shouted Johnny.

"Johnny, that's got nothin' ta do with you an' me."

Johnny's hand flew to Spot's chest and began digging around the collar of his shirt. He pulled out the key necklace the Brooklyn boy had worn everyday and yanked it hard off his chest. Johnny held it above Spot's head and let the key dangle in front of his face as if he were trying to hypnotize him. As the key got closer to Spot's face, Johnny laughed and eventually scooped it back up with his hand.

"Now that we got _that_ name outta the way, tell me what Árdanach Thirteen means to you," ordered Johnny in a calm, collected fashion.

"Johnny, this is got nothin' ta do with me!" expressed Spot in a gradually enraged tone; the amount of passionate anger in his voice surprised Johnny, and most of all himself. The Italian's eyebrows rose at the sudden inflection of the Mick's voice.

"You're tryin' ta blame me fer somethin' I had no control over, whatsoever!" yelled Spot. "Fuck, I was probably just a baby when what you're about to tell me happened! Grow the hell up and accept that it's not my fault, it's not your fault! Goddammit, Jumper!"

Johnny was taken aback by the Brooklyn boy's oration, as well as the name he was called, but was nonetheless undaunted by it. He inhaled deeply and stood in front of Spot.

"Conlon…you of all people should know that when you'se got a family, newsies or not, ya rise together just as much as ya fall together. Now, I want you to know that Patrick Conlon, the man who handed you over to the streets 'a Brooklyn, killed my father, when I was five years old. Árdanach Thirteen. Nevah been able to forget that night. An arrogant sonuvabitch, that Conlon, short in stature I must admit, but still, cocky as hell…"

"Watch yer fuckin' mouth, Salvini."

Johnny continued, unfazed. "He an' his 'gang,' if ya wanna call it that, stormed into my home in the middle 'a the night. Kidnapped my mother, shot my father in the process." He suddenly leapt forward and grabbed a chunk of Spot's hair near his temple, getting uncomfortably close to his face, forcing eye contact with him and speaking through a clenched jaw. "I watched the whole thing with my own-two-eyes. I was five years old, ya got that, Conlon? Yer potato-sack piece 'a Ireland trash father killed mine."

Spot struggled to control his head. He turned his eyes away and focused on a place in the corner. Suddenly a familiar noise came in the distance. He wasn't sure if it was real or imaginary, but a sound that uncannily resembled Noah's voice streamed into his conscience. For a moment the noise gave him peace. Then Johnny let go of Spot's hair with force and walked backward towards the door.

"Your family…" spoke Johnny as he walked, "killed my family, Conlon. Not just my parents, Spot, Brooklyn killed everythin' I had…newsies, Queens…all 'cause 'a you. Both my families." He grabbed hold of the doorknob tightly. "So, now, in return…"

The door swung open widely and everything Spot feared came to his eyes; Gabby had been bound at the wrists and mouth by Johnny Salvini, the boy from Harlem, and was tossed into the room. She fell to the ground, blood spattering certain places of her body, her wrists and her face. As she looked up at Spot, her evergreen eyes poured floods of tears over her red, scratched-up cheeks. She, as well as Spot before, had a thick cloth tied in her mouth. She could not speak.

"Fucking bastard!" screamed Spot in agony. "I swear to God, Johnny, I'm gonna _kill_ you! Yer dead!" He moved his arms fiercely about in his constraints, wriggling with such force that he started to imagine actually breaking free and murdering him.

"Conlon, don' make promises ya can't keep, a'right?"

Johnny closed the door again and grabbed Gabby by the arm. Resisting out of fear, she fought to get his hands away from her, until Johnny finally jerked her arm practically out of its socket. He sat her down forcefully in the chair that stood inches from Spot.

Spot looked into her eyes, which frequently dodged his gaze, and found no words. His throat felt as though it were swelling and a rare but natural phenomenon occurred; a knot had lodged in his throat and he felt as though he could break down at any moment. Johnny, though, was quick to bring him back to reality. He stood behind Gabby and wrapped his arm across her collar bone, loosely but tight enough for her to remain in place. In his grasp was a simple, powerful handgun which pointed toward the wall.

"It ain't too good of a feelin', is it Conlon?" inquired Johnny, "seein' someone ya love at the other end of a pistol. But wait…Gabby, don't you remember that war a while back? Didn't you play some kinda part in that?"

Gabby's head lowered, her hair, tangled, falling in front of her face.

"Yeah, guilt's a bitch, ain't it?"

Suddenly Johnny pulled the triggered of the gun and the bullet shot through the other end of the room, traveling through the wall and causing Gabby to jump to an upright position.

"Spot, I want you ta look into Gabby's lying, cheating face, an' really see what you'd be missin'. You can let Gabby live but I'll take out the rest 'a yer life. Noah, Bolt, Jack Kelly, the Jacobs', Racetrack, Thompson, Skittery…all 'a them."

Gabby closed her eyes and began hyperventilating, her chest heaving in and out in rapid motion. She sobbed painfully, the cloth in her mouth muffling the sound.

"Or I can kill this one an' be done with the whole thing. _Bam,_ pull the trigga now and you can go back to ya life and everyone else who decorated it, minus the girl, 'a course."

"Yer _fuckin_' crazy if ya think yer gonna get away with that!" spat Conlon. He looked at him square in the eye, willing himself _not_ to look at Gabby to stay strong, for if he acknowledged her appearance he was sure to fold.

Johnny smiled wickedly and stepped away from Gabby. He made his way toward the door and said, "I had a feelin' you'd say that. So I brought someone else for ya."

Spot closed his eyes as his mind raced. He needed to get out. What had he done in the past to get out? _Face the enemy and he'd defeated him. That's how it always was. He dueled with his opponent and he always won. Always._ But now, he was helpless. He didn't have control of the situation. He didn't have Bolt, who always aided in his victory. He didn't have Jack Kelly, the most loyal friend he had next to Bolt. He didn't have David Jacobs, the logic, the brains behind every situation. He had nothing except remnants of past triumphs. Only figments of a memory…pieces of the past…

"Open yer eyes, Conlon," demanded Salvini.

Spot came down to reality. He turned his head and in Johnny's arms was Noah, his perfect cheeks red and slick with tears. His innocent being squirming around in the Italian's grasp. Truly his father's boy, Noah wasn't crying. Gabby glanced in Johnny's direction and immediately turned the other way. Her muffled cries resonated lightly through the gag. Her head lowered still, she shook her head and her body trembled violently.

"No! Salvini, I swear!" Conlon felt himself weakening. He felt himself breathing harder and harder, becoming more and more distressed, his voice fading way. His mind sped dizzily, his head shaking from side to side. This was the end. He had a decision to make, he couldn't wait in his choice for fear of the repercussions.

This was his doing! All of this, it was his fault! Spot had created this! His enemies, his brothers, his life, this scene before him was his entire fault! What had he to offer another human being? A life threatened with danger behind every corner? His past lurking about everything in this world, putting others in peril? He had created this!

The past zoomed through every fiber of Spot's being. The war with Tyce. The Queens leader had ripped his key from his neck. He had defeated Brooklyn and cast a spell over it. A light came into his life, a girl who changed him and had ultimately deceived him. The light had not burned out; he had had Noah. They had spawned a life more dangerous than the sins of his and Gabby's. _What was he to live and let live if they lived such a life of danger? _No matter how smart or courageous or honorable Noah was, he was doomed to suffer from his father's past. He had nothing to live for.

"KILL ME!"

An eerily serene silence enveloped the room which was that of a man coming to terms with his guilt. This helpless, sacrificial act had made for an end to Spot. He panted, slouched over as much as his binds would allow. He sobbed painful cries with the weight of a thousand men. No one spoke. No one moved.

"Ya heard me, Salvini…" croaked the boy who finally controlled his breathing.

Spot Conlon looked up pathetically and dejectedly into Johnny's eyes, who struggled to pick apart the puzzle in his enemy's face.

"Do it."

The Italian raised his head, his chin pointing slightly upward. He inhaled deeply through his nostrils and walked to the doorway. He handed the innocent Noah to a lackey who had helped with the scheme. He whispered lowly to the boy and the subservient one walked into the room and grabbed hold of Gabby. Struggling and writhing at first, she was hauled out of the room eventually.

"Salvini. End this."

Johnny looked at Spot and hesitated. He shut the door slowly and walked purposefully to the seat before him. Spot could see his jaw was locked in place, his teeth pressed together sharply. He didn't scare Spot. There was a morbid connection between the two, as if Johnny had respect for the boy who had given himself up, ultimately for Gabby, Noah, Brooklyn; his family.

As Johnny grabbed the root of Spot's hair, lifting up his face with a deadlocked gaze, Spot was at peace. His breathing was calm, his heartbeat normal. Johnny raised the gun to Spot's chin. The Irish boy didn't concentrate on the pistol, or the pistol's holder. He squinted his eyes shut and visited a place bigger than himself.

Deep down, as anyone would feel the same, Spot had chosen his life over his untimely death. He had chosen to watch his son grow up. He had chosen to stay with Gabby and live out the rest of his life. But he didn't have that particular choice of fate; for so long he had had control over others' lives, but never his own. Yet this was his control now. He chose to save his _life_, which was, undoubtedly, Gabby and Noah.

Salvini cocked the gun. The noise set deep into Spot's stomach. In his heart, he was ready. But his mind pictured a different outcome. In his mind, Bolt had found where he was and the rest of his boys had stormed in with him. He could feel it. He could _feel_ this happening all around him. They had just taken out the group of Johnny's men and were fighting their way toward the room. Gabby and Noah, they were safe; he didn't worry about them. They were safe. Bolt had taken care of them. Bolt was coming to his rescue. He needed not worry.

Now, the door to the room had swung open. Spot had opened his eyes and there stood Bolt, a ghost of his past who had always come to his aid. He held up a pistol to Johnny Salvini. The gun still lodged against Spot's chin. He felt it, he felt it, he felt it. He watched Bolt and he watched Salvini both with pistols in their grasps, equally sharing power. Spot closed his eyes.

There was a single shot. It was a different place, so much bigger than himself..._so_ much bigger.

"Open your eyes, Conlon."


	21. The Tree

This had to have been Heaven. It _must_ have been; Spot had never been happier in his entire life. He walked taller and prouder than ever in this golden haze he was in. The sunlight spread warmth of yellow rays onto his path, the ground lightening with it for every step he took. Spot was, for the first time in a long time, content. There was utopia surrounding him everywhere he looked. There was Gabby and Noah.

They met him at the end of this path. Gabby's long, chestnut locks danced lightly over her shoulders and draped her back, a blushing cheek spread to include a slow smile on her face as her evergreen eyes connected deeply with the sapphire orbs of their beholder. Her soft hand held dearly to Noah, who had grown remarkably. The infant now stood leaning against his mother's leg almost completely on his own, connected as if the two were one being.

Spot held out his hand and Gabby took hold of it. Immediately he felt a rush of new life. She let go and his hand stroked her forearm as her fingers brushed lightly against his cheek. He gazed into her eyes and she said ever so faintly, "Open your eyes."

So he did. One year later, Spot Conlon opened his eyes. There was sunlight fighting its way through the delicate curtains of the apartment bedroom and greeted him in the timeliest manner.

"Spot."

He felt a hushed voice stream into his ear as he lay on his side beneath the thin covers. He smiled to himself and turned over. Gabby sat next to him, already prepared for the day. Her brown hair dangled lightly onto his face as she looked down on him with a faint smile.

"You need to see this." She grabbed his face and kissed his forehead before turning over to get up from the bed. As she reached the door she smiled at him with her green eyes.

Spot hesitated to take in the moment. He smiled faintly back and took to his feet as well. Pulling up the straps of his trademark red suspenders over smooth, bronzed skin, he joined Gabby at the door. The apartment was not at all like it was a year ago; it had then been blank and always inhabiting a cold and lonely feeling. Now, the room was alight with the warm, morning sunshine flooding in from the windows. Lively, bright green leaves tapped lightly onto the window; a tree had managed to grow beautifully outside this apartment.

Noah, who had aged a successful one and a half years, stood leaning onto a chair next to the window, the infant cascaded in a golden ray of sunshine. His big, sapphire blue eyes looked up proudly at Spot. He pointed his arm toward the outside and turned toward Gabby, mumbling gibberish words yet getting out clearly, "mama."

"I know, honey," responded Gabby. She stood behind him and took hold of his reaching hands. She positioned him toward Spot's direction and looked up at him with a proud smile. "You gotta watch!"

Spot eyed her skeptically. Even after a year and a half, he had yet to gain proper knowledge when it came to the development of babies. He watched curiously and anxiously as Noah once again looked up at him. Gabby took a few steps forward, prompting her son to do so as well. Spot watched in anticipation as the infant moved one foot in front of the other, slowly and surely, his eyes still watching his father ambitiously. As Gabby gradually let go of his hands, Spot watched proudly as Noah Conlon took his first steps toward him.

Gabby moved away slowly as if afraid that sudden movement would break the moment. She smiled widely, bursting with excitement, as she watched Spot crouch down and scoop Noah up into his arms when he go there.

"I knew you'd be excited!" she exclaimed, "but I gotta hurry up. Jack and Sarah are coming over for breakfast soon and I have to finish this..."

Spot didn't quite catch what Gabby had said to him, or what she continued to say; he was enraptured with Noah. He spun him around slowly in his arms and let him down again to walk. He put him down and walked a few steps away. The baby let out a high-pitched laugh each time, as if Spot were playing hide and seek with him.

After a few rounds, Spot picked him back up again and sat down on the chair. Noah reached out once more toward the tree growing outside. The Manhattan tree was an odd sight, indeed—there seemed to be no plants for miles around their apartment and here a strong one had taken its place right outside.

Spot watched Noah's fingers grabbing for the outside world eagerly, it was almost inspiring. After having come so close to giving himself up entirely, he would not have wanted to miss this for the world. Too many times he could imagine the feel of that pistol lodged into his chin by Johnny Salvini and it frightened him to think of what might have been, had things not turned out they way they did. It was as if he had played the events out in his mind as they had been occurring; now he wasn't certain of his complete, one hundred percent accuracy, but somehow he had felt Bolt and the rest of his Brooklyn boys in that building. As his little prophecy had played itself out, Bolt had rescued him, and now they were even once more. Salvini was gone forever now and the dreams he woke up to each night were now lighter than ever.

Spot placed his hand on Noah's head, grasping a few locks of his chocolate brown curls. The baby grabbed Spot's necklace and stuffed the key into his mouth. At first disgusted as a line of drool dripped onto his chest, but he laughed to himself. Within a year he had learned the more important things in life—patience was one of them.

"…And I wasn't sure what kind of eggs they liked, so I just went with scrambled," finished Gabby.

Shaking his head back to reality, Spot finally noticed Gabby was ranting an entire conversation with him from the kitchen area. She quickly set the table and balanced the food cooking on the stove as well. Spot got up, set Noah down onto the chair, and walked over to Gabby. He grabbed her by the arms and she immediately stopped moving. He smirked famously and pressed his lips against hers.

"Relax, hon'."

She looked at him and exhaled deeply, her muscles unclenching and her pulse slowing down rapidly. She wrapped her arms around him tightly and they embraced casually as they always did nowadays. Spot kissed her forehead lovingly and they paused for a moment to look at the living room. The sunshine still cascaded into the Manhattan home in all its glory, as if symbolic. From where they were located, Spot swore he could see Brooklyn from there since the bridge wasn't too far in the distance.

Noah had turned himself around and stood leaning on the back of the chair watching the streets and buildings below and around him, his silhouette framed in the window.

Gabby looked up at him with curious eyes. She asked him, "Do you think we got it right?"

Spot looked at her a moment and then at Noah again. He pressed her head against his shoulder, running his fingers tenderly through her hair, and answered sincerely.

"Yeah. I really think we did."


End file.
